Two Boxes of Memories
by solsbane
Summary: She still remembers the first time she saw him after the War. He still remembers the first time he wrote her a letter. Two people recollect their relationship, filled with distance and things never said - and try to find happiness in between the seams.
1. Let's Start at the Beginning

**I realized that I've forgotten the all-important author's note upon releasing this story for the first time.**

**Anyway, this is my absolute FAVORITE coupling in the entire fanfictiondom, and personally the one that holds a lot of significance - I think they really should've ended up together, as the sign of the war and its internal causes being really over. It would've been a much more (idealistic) but symbolic ending.**

**Regardless, I'll pay all the usual homage to the author: J.K. Rowling, I love you. With all my heart. All of your writing belongs to you, as this original plot belongs to me.**

**Enjoy - I honestly don't know how this story will end yet, so I might have to change the genre to angst, but I hope not.**

**REVIEW! I actually write a lot more and at a faster rate if I get reviews and story alerts/favorites.**

* * *

><p>She still remembers the first time she saw him after the War. He stood tall and proud, black robes immaculate and expensive as they always were, silver-blonde hair clean and neat. He didn't waste a single movement even as the crowd in the courtroom around him continually simmered. Between angry stares and biting comments, he stood with an impassive and bored face that his ancestors, immortally captured in all their sarcasm and trademark smirks into paintings of the Manor, would have been proud of.<p>

She remembers, even now, how scared he looked in her eyes.

And she'd seen all kinds of fear – fear mixed with hatred as she aimed a wand at a throat, fear and agony as one comes to the realization that there will be an end in a few seconds, fear and bravery in the face of certain failure and danger. She's also known fear, she thinks. Fear of knowing someone you love will be dead by the end of the day.

Fear of losing the wonder that was magic, fear of losing her freedom, fear of something worse than death that could await her if she was ever caught.

Thick, choking, and petrifying fear, that made her and broke her into what she was then.

She remembers thinking with some venom that his fear should be nothing compared to the fear that tormented her for years. She remembers that she wanted to scoff, her head at a superior angle and nothing but contempt on her face. Like he used to toward her.

She remembers wanting to reach out and hold his hand, instead.

In fact, she remembers doing just that.

* * *

><p>He still remembers the first time he wrote her a letter. It was while he was in the Muggle world, of course, serving his exile sentence with a grim sort of determination. Honestly, he couldn't complain. He still had access to his family's exceedingly large fortune and both of his parents were alive. Although he couldn't see them for the next 5 years, at least his father was only under eternal Ministry supervision instead of in a tiny, dank cell in Azkaban. Actually, on second thought, he knew his father would rather have been in the Azkaban cell than be reduced to a ward of the state, as if he were an invalid. He also knows his father would've taken the cell any day over having his son take the blame in his stead and carry out an exile sentence. But abroad, the son disagrees. It's an enormous comfort to know that he has a home to return to.<p>

He remembers trying to say all of this in the letter. But he also remembers that 30 minutes later, there was nothing written on the cheap yellow stationery other than her formal title as required in his monthly reports. At least Muggle pens didn't leak ink like quills did. He started over, crossing out the word 'supervisor' and just leaving her last name, just as he would call her in his conversations with her in real life.

Not that he had conversations with her in his mind, or anything.

But he remembers writing, writing and watching pages fill up in his slightly slanted, disheveled script. He told her everything he wanted to say about his relief at his parents safety, his opinions about Azkaban, the merits of Muggle pens.

He still doesn't really know why he even wrote all of it, back then. Maybe it was just the relief of being able to talk about it. Maybe it was the fact that he had no one else to talk to, even if he could.

He remembers reading it over, realizing that he hadn't written a single thing about how his rather miserable exile life has been. He hasn't described how mind-numbingly boring running is after flying for so many years, or how awful office jobs are, no matter that he actually likes books and specifically requested to be put in a publishing house during his exile.

Most problematically, he remembers the last sentence at the end of the letter, one that he never wants to say over a letter, because she deserves a real apology after putting up with him for six long years in Hogwarts.

He remembers folding that letter and shoving it into a nondescript box, one carved with his family insignia with a fake bottom. It's there he put the letter, and the letter after that, and the letter after that.

He feels a slight twinge of guilt, knowing that she keeps the short, dry postcards he sent instead in a shoebox in the back of her closet.

He feels a bigger guilt, never having said the apology to her face, or the forbidden phrase that eventually replaced that apology in later letters.

* * *

><p>She remembers being unable to talk about him with her friends.<p>

She was going about her daily duties, filing reports about the people who had been exiled to the Muggle world at the end of the War instead of being sent to Azkaban. People still tell her what a saint she was for having been able to take these people under her wing, to fight with the Wizengamot for their lives when they deserved to be stuffed away on a cold island in the middle of the North Sea. People praise her regardless of what she has to say - that morals forbid punishing criminals' children, who were raised wrongly from the start. Secretly, she wonders even now if she could've found a better way. She fears she may have scarred them into a deeper chasm of hatred, by forcing them to live amongst those whom they had looked down on.

Her friends, of course, tried to dissuade her from this line of thought. Harry told her that day that it was the perfect solution, to expose them to the Muggles. He thought they would eventually find that Muggles had more than just magic, and realize that science was a much more impressive thing than what any wizard can imagine. Ron told her she was being paranoid and unrealistic, as usual. She remembers looking at him, expecting him to be stuffing his face full of food in the meanwhile. But he was scowling – he told her she did the best she could, and that if anyone turned out badly it was a reflection on them.

She thinks now that that was the day she realized she would never get her Ron back, the one with the oblivious grin.

She also remembers the sudden question Harry had asked, about him. Harry asked if he was giving her any trouble, and if so, that he was a goner when he came back. She remembers, with amazing clarity, how rapidly she shook her head and changed the conversation to Neville and Hannah's impending wedding. She suspects that both of them knew right then, but loves them still for not having said anything. Ron followed her lead, commenting that as Best Man, Harry had an extremely large burden on his shoulders. After all, who would calm Neville when he was hyperventilating minutes before the wedding? As Harry and Ron fell back into their usual banter, she had kept a tight smile on her face.

She remembers going back to her flat, and rereading the latest postcard he sent again and again, as if she hadn't done that already.


	2. Sometimes, Read My Mind

**So much thanks to house3er4ev and pushtotalk for favoriting or putting this story on an alert list!**

**You give me strength.**

**As usual, J.K. Rowling owns everything except for my original plot.**

* * *

><p>He remembers being asked on a date by a fellow intern at the publishing house.<p>

In his defense, he hadn't known it was a date until she made it into one. She had offered to help him with making a list of books he should read, in an unassuming, genuine way that surprised him. After a week at the office, it was clear that he knew absolutely nothing about Muggle literature and that was bad, bad, bad. The Ministry had (unscrupulously, he might add) literally charmed every individual in the office so that he could get this job, but had conveniently forgotten to mention that he should, maybe, know a few very important titles. Make that a couple of hundred – he had wisely kept silent most of the time in the office, copying, editing grammar and spelling, or getting coffee for the editors. Surprising himself, he felt no bubbling resentment at having to do such menial tasks, or having to be at the bottom of the office hierarchy. Sure, it hurt his pride. But there was no resentment, only a dull sense of inadequacy that was really nothing compared to the much more intense feeling his father had fostered in him over the years when it became evident that he would not be the ruthless maniac required to join the Dark Lord.

He managed.

But the first thing he did when he got out of work on the first day was go to a public library – an ingenious institution in the Muggle world, providing free access to any book in the world without the hassle of having to buy them. He took out 20 books, which was the limit, from the Classics section, and occupied his time with reading endlessly.

But that morning, he had been particularly silent during a meeting in which an editor was expounding on the merits of this postmodern writer or that. This intern, this girl with the big brown eyes, noticed. This was probably why she had offered.

To this day, he doesn't know why he said yes. He recognizes that it probably had to do with those disarmingly bright eyes. She was obviously intelligent, and she liked her work; and she had those big, liquid eyes. Not quite the right color – this girl had eyes that were more hazel than warm dark chocolate – but close enough. The point was that he had said yes and now they were going to have dinner together at this café near where she lived.

Before he left his flat to go meet this girl, he briefly glanced at the letter he had written the night before, another one of those that would go in his box. He paused at the doorway for several seconds, staring at the dining table. He suddenly felt reluctant to go, and picked up the letter ruefully. He cast his eyes over the last line again, the one that he always wrote. With a sigh, he carefully folded the letter and reminded himself to write an even longer apology than usual that night.

He remembers that the girl actually looked... well, happy, when he appeared in her line of sight. He also remembers that all they talked about were books, because it was the only real topic he was comfortable with. He had no personal life to speak of in the Muggle world, and obviously his life as a wizard was completely and utterly off-limits.

He was never so thankful that he had no social life. When the dinner ended, she suggested seeing a movie, much to his confusion. He remembers politely offering to walk her home instead, and then politely extricating himself from her arm wound around his. She seemed expectant at the doorstep, but he gave her a half-hearted smile and walked straight back the way he came.

He still feels smug, recalling that night. Maybe he was an all right bloke, he had thought. Perhaps he would make the 'date' into just a casual dinner between colleagues in his letter. Never mind that she would never read it.

* * *

><p>She still remembers typing fake reports with his name on them, so that they would pass the Ministry's page requirement. She hadn't touched a computer for years, and had to go to a Muggle library to do them. She remembers feeling a slight thrill at thinking that he might be sitting in front of a computer, like her, working.<p>

She tells herself that the reason she still remembers almost every word of what he sent her in those five years is because she had to read them so many times to write these reports, but she knows this is false. They were, after all, fake – what did it matter if the broad facts were right? But she wanted her reports to be as close to his real life as possible, or so she told herself again when she knows she actually enjoys imagining what his life among Muggles is like. She can't remember the contents of what she actually wrote, but she remembers that under her slow fingers on the keyboard, a sentence about his reading binge for his job turns into a page, and another sentence about his newfound penchant for coffee into two paragraphs.

She remembers feeling like she was participating in his life somehow, living vicariously in a world where she imagined running away to all the time during the War. Before long, she thought she could tell his handwriting by heart; draw a map of the neighborhood he lived in; go through a daily life at his workplace.

She knew he didn't want to write them. She thinks now with some hollow feeling in her chest that she had been a fool for being so giddy with only a few lines from him every month. She knew, and knows still, that she was irrational for feeling that way. Who knows how much time he put into those postcards? For all she knows, he could've written them in mere seconds and mailed them, maybe hurrying to write something before… he went to see a girl or something. The thought made her slightly depressed. The cards were always nondescript – a pastoral scene of rural Scotland, a time-worn gargoyle sitting on a famous church steeple, a large lake with the sun's rays slanting down toward the surface – all in all, average and normal.

But once, while going over the latest postcard he sent, she noticed a blot. A period was overly large, as if he had held a pen there for a while. He didn't use a quill, for sure, but he still seemed to prefer ink pens. What was that blot? Muggle pens didn't leak ink, like quills. The next letter was slightly wobbly, instead of the straight slants that he usually wrote in.

She remembers laughing in the library, making other people look at her as if she were crazy. Blushing, she thought she must be going insane, psychoanalyzing every tiny little flaw in a postcard. But still, his usual postcards were so flawless… She stared at the blot for a long time in the library.

In the report she wrote that day, the one that still sits in her filing cabinet in the spare room, she wrote about an imagined episode with flu, and his first visit to the pharmacist.

* * *

><p>He remembers the time he caught the flu a few months into his exile. No, it was precisely 3 months and 12 days since he had left Wizarding Britain. Anyway, it was part of a flu epidemic that was making its way like an insidious little rat through the streets of Muggle London. He knew he should've steered well away from the editor, who'd been coughing all day. But the editor had requested peppermint tea and being a lowly intern, he had to make the cup and come within breathing distance of the sickly looking man.<p>

His loud sneeze as he was writing his regular postcard to her should've been a signal. He didn't even bother rewriting it, even though there was a noticeable blot and he normally tried so hard to keep his postcards perfect for her.

The next day, he had to call in sick. The cellphone was still a little new to him, but he got the right place after only his second try. He dug out the manual afterwards to learn how to save the phone number of his supervisor at work, which was written in the business card he'd been carrying with him in his coat pocket. His supervisor (who was really a nice woman when he ever felt like acknowledging it) graciously let him off for the day, and he was wallowing in the depths of used tissues and sweaty sheets.

Eventually he got up and turned on the laptop sitting on his desk. He thought it then and he still thinks it now, that he would never get used to this Internet business. There was no doubt that it was useful, but exactly what it was and how it worked was beyond his comprehension. So he gave up, looking up at the calendar hanging above the desk and grumbling that he only had 57 months left in this world anyway. But he did Google (why anyone would ever name anything Google, or use it as a verb, was also beyond him) what to do when he was sick with the flu. Reading a suggestion about going to a pharmacist and buying a bottle of cough syrup, he grumbled more and gathered his coat and scarf to go outside.

He remembers how the man standing at the payment counter had looked at him suspiciously. He gave the cashier a nasty look, one that would've lived up to his Slytherin legacy. So what if he was buying everything in the store that had the word "cold" or "flu" on it? He could afford it. It was none of the cashier's bloody business. The man should've been thankful he was buying so much at all.

The first cold pill he tried was, described mildly, horrendous. He grudgingly appreciated that Muggles had the sense to make medicine so that there was none of that disgusting aftertaste that potions left, but did not appreciate the sluggish feeling in his bones or his foggy head at all. Collapsing back onto the bed, he barely took off his coat and scarf before falling straight asleep.

He's amazed that he can remember the dream he had in his sick state, the dream in which a cool hand was holding his feverish one, the small, soft one that he had held so briefly that day in the Wizengamot.

He also remembers his sense of loss when he woke up, and the disappointment that the only thing near his hand was the cool plaster wall of his flat.

* * *

><p><strong>REVIEWS are appreciated!<strong>

**A/N: A question came from pushtotalk about the timeframe in which the two characters are talking in - appropriate edits have been made to the text to make it clearer. But if there's one thing I've been trying really hard with this rather experimental style is keeping the tenses in order - they are both reminiscing and narrating events that happened to them in the past, but occasionally they throw in present thoughts they have as they narrate.**

**If there are any other questions, leave a review and I will definitely clear things up. Much thanks.**


	3. And Sometimes, We Just Misunderstand

**Well... In editing this chapter, I kind of erased the whole thing. Thank goodness for backups!**

**Two Boxes of Memories belongs to me, and nothing else!**

* * *

><p>She sometimes wishes she wasn't a government pencil-pusher. She cringes whenever she thinks of herself that way, but she was never an active Auror on the field, like Harry or Ron. Years after the end of the Exile Project, as it's been dubbed, she's still writing reports on magical law and dealing with issues on parchment. She wonders if it hadn't been for the Project, she would've even joined the Ministry. Certainly, when she was planning it, she felt a sort of righteousness and sense of duty that had kept her fighting in the war – the same feelings that still reside within her, albeit fragmented and distorted.<p>

So it's not without some bitterness that she recalls her quarterly meetings with the Wizengamot. She feels the loss of the fire in her younger self, who stood in the Wizengamot for the first meeting of the Exile Project and fought those old, esteemed wizards and witches for what she thought was right.

In reality, it's only been a year since the Project ended. How bizarre, what time can do.

Chief Warlock Elphias Doge, that dear old man, had been the first to speak. He gave her a kind look beforehand, as if silently sympathizing with her cause. It eased her somewhat. But the speech he gave as an introduction made her tense again, although it was obvious that Doge was not speaking for himself but for the entire Wizengamot. It was nothing she hadn't expected. She knew the older members of the Wizengamot, who fought Voldemort in both wars, heavily disapproved of the Project. The concern of the Wizengamot, Doge said, was that collaborators of the Dark Lord were being forgiven far too easily with a five-year exile sentence. Would she, as the supervisor of the Project and its main supporter, please explain?

She remembers this moment fondly, because she is proud of herself for having been so brave. She remembers standing up, clearly articulating that the Light would not achieve true victory until every wizard and witch of the community believed that blood purity had nothing to do with magical ability. And to that end, the Project would allow those whose families had supported Voldemort but who had not actually become Death Eaters to come in contact with Muggles and understand that they were not in any way inferior to wizards, and by extension neither were Muggle-borns.

The elderly judges surrounding her didn't look convinced. She stood still, holding her ground. If she had anything, it was courage. She hadn't been sorted into Gryffindor for nothing, after all. The conviction part was a little bit shaky. But the nagging voice in the back of her head, the one that told her that she was doing more wrong than good, that this can all backfire on her and the rest of the Wizarding community, had been silenced for the moment.

Another man with frosty white eyebrows questioned her next on the progress of the exiled. She calmly sat back down, and answered questions about the people she stood for – fellow schoolmates she never would've imagined defending in Hogwarts, but again, time was a bizarre phenomenon. The Wizengamot and she had gone through numerous names, among them Theodore Nott, Pansy Parkinson, and Gregory Goyle. She had to admit that they hadn't yet adjusted well to the Muggle lifestyle as of yet (a few eyebrows were raised about the tone in some of the reports that the exiled had written), but pointed out that they had only been there for a few months. She still remembers the clammy feeling in her hand increasing as she turned the pages, reaching the end of the pile.

The members of the Wizengamot, who were reading through magical copies of the reports she held in her hand, finally reached the last name. It was a woman with frizzy, wild hair that spoke his name, in the form of a question.

She still marvels at that younger self in her memory, who answered the question calmly with a normal voice, not a single thing out of place. Although she was, and is, terrible at hiding her emotions, she doesn't remember the slightest tremor in her voice that usually gives her away.

It was with a curt nod from the woman that the meeting was finally over. The eyes of the Wizengamot bore into the back of her head as she passed out of the room, relieved. She practically flew to her nondescript office in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and closed the door with a quiet click.

She tries hard to not remember this part, because it was then that she noticed the deathly clamp of her fingers on the sheets of parchment and paper, her knuckles white. It was only then that she broke down and sank to the floor, the stress of reading barbed reports from the exiled and frenzied preparations for the meeting finally getting to her. The nagging was back, the niggling doubt. She wonders if he knows how uncertain she had been about it all, whether he knows that he was the one that she worried about the most, because the curiously detached cards he sent unsettled her more than the caustic letters she received daily. At least those let her know there were things to be changed in them, that they needed to be there. That they hated her, but at least they felt emotions.

She sat on the floor and chanted: I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I took you away from everything you know, I'm sorry I couldn't even let you have some peace with the family you tried so hard to protect, I'm sorry this was the best I could do.

I'm sorry, she told him. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry…

* * *

><p>He remembers getting sloshed at a bar. He recalls thinking that bars were the same whether they were serving firewhiskey or just plain whiskey, right before his thoughts became too cloudy to sort out. But he remembers paying the bartender probably more than he should have, then dragging his feet through the horrid London snow, thinking that he would clean them with a Scourgify when he got home. Then he remembers that he realized he couldn't use magic, and kicked more snow out of spite.<p>

He realizes now that memories are selective, because he only remembers thinking about her during the whole time home. He resented her for a second for sending him to that godforsaken street in the Muggle part of London, and then thought that had she been there, she probably would've helped him home and maybe he would've had her in his house, for… well. He hated her, because he should've been only like this after a night of drinking with his mates from Slytherin, not drinking by himself on a Friday night. He wondered what would've happened if he had been given a week of freedom to say goodbye to his friends before leaving, but then realizes that they were all on exile too. But really, if he had that free week, he would've used it productively.

Maybe he would've even used those days to go for drinks, but with her. Maybe he would've properly said an apology to her. Maybe he would've had the courage to ask her to wait for him, promising that he would come back a better man.

He inwardly cringes, remembering the next moment in which he laughed like a true drunkard in the middle of the street. Sure, it may have been in the Muggle world, but he still had his dignity. He also remembers, all too clearly, that he had laughed because it was ridiculous for him, the prince of Slytherin house, to be pining over a woman he barely knew for all the years they spent together in school. A Gryffindor, at that. But what did it matter at that point? Trying to stay alive during the war with his family was hard enough without all the childish hatred and house enmity clogging his thoughts. He suspects, to this day, that he had realized this the moment she had shown up with her two hero buffoons in the Manor.

He never could say her name, whether it was at that moment of mortal danger or at school. No, he'd only been able to call her in nasty nicknames.

He remembers that as the day he started addressing her by her first name in his letters, watching the letters swirl in his drunken stupor and hearing the name roll on his tongue with a strange satisfaction.

He fell asleep with his head on the letter, her name still on his lips.


	4. Loneliness Is Never Expressed in Words

**Thanks to yellowtweety, darbythomas, and PurebloodsDoItBetter for adding alert, and CrazyAvidReader and MySweetEclipse for favoriting!**

**Again, all rights to the Harry Potter series belong to J.K. Rowling, and I only take ownership of the plot.**

**Inspired (partially) by Valentine's Day.**

* * *

><p>Photos of Neville and Hannah's wedding still sit on her drawer. There's one of the happy couple of course, Hannah kissing him on the cheek and Neville blushing furiously while Harry and Ron clap him on the back. Susan and Megan, Hannah's dormmates from Hogwarts, stand in violet bridesmaid dresses at Hannah's side laughing all the while (she remembers that Ginny kept silent about the unfortunate color choice, which clashed badly with Susan's auburn hair). There's another photo of just the Gryffindors, with Neville in the center, vanilla frosting and cake decorating his face. She always comes back to this picture – she doesn't look particularly great in it, but the happy smile on her face is hard to miss. Surrounded by Ginny and her two boys – no, they're really men now – she looks radiant. She still has the dress she wore to the wedding somewhere in her closet, gathering dust and smelling strongly of mothballs. Hanging next to it, there are several more dresses, one a bridesmaid gown for Harry and Ginny's wedding, another for Ron and Lavender's, and the last one for Luna's wedding. She sometimes opens her closet and laughs at the last one, just at the sheer amount of feathers on that thing.<p>

She has different photos for all of those weddings on her drawer, but Neville and Hannah were the first to get married. She remembers when Neville had poked his head into her fireplace, looking embarrassed and stuttering while asking her if she would help him pick out a ring for Hannah. She remembers his bashful expression when she squealed and ran to hug him, forgetting that he was only a face on the Floo network. So his wedding means a lot to her, even though it's been several years since then and they now have their hands full with a toddler running around his rooms in Hogwarts.

Maybe it's because it was the first time she had been so carefree.

She remembers being so wonderfully relaxed, moving her body with abandon to the music like the others around her. She literally felt the tension that breathed in her like a living thing floating out of her, leaving her happy, serene, and most of all safe, for the first time since she had entered Hogwarts. She felt the end of the War with every fiber of her being, and she even forgot about the Project for a moment.

Momentarily, anyway.

A slow croon overtook the room only minutes later, and she watched the newlyweds with bright eyes and a keen sense of joy still coursing through her. One by one, her friends at the table got up to dance alongside the Longbottoms, and she was left alone. Sipping her champagne, she watched them – Harry whispering something into Ginny's ear, Ron looking like his old, goofy self while Lavender taught him how to dance, Seamus and Dean dancing with each other for jokes and getting a good laugh out of everyone.

Another flute of champagne, then another. She thought she saw him, at some point, as if he would be at the wedding of a Gryffindor and a Hufflepuff. It took her a while to recognize that it was only Hannah passing by her on Neville's arm, flitting around the party like a pixie and sharing happy smiles with Neville. She admits that she was jealous of her old friend Neville for the first time – to be so elated, so in love… She can't quite recall when the music began to fade in her ears, or maybe it was just the party winding down as the night grew older.

She watched the bubbles sinking in the last flute of champagne she remembers drinking.

* * *

><p>He still doesn't think Valentine's Day deserves to be a holiday. He doesn't mind the Muggles renaming Yule as Christmas, or the bizarre religious undertones (he read the Bible, though to him it all just came across as a book of fables that one would read to their children when they were young… then again, all the talk about prostitutes and killing of firstborn sons wouldn't be healthy for a young brain). But Valentine's Day sounded like something women cooked up to get chocolates and flowers from men. His business-savvy side supposes that it's a really ingenious holiday for some companies, and wonders if his father would ever reconsider investing in Muggle corporations.<p>

His office was full of red and pink decorations every Valentine's Day during his five years there, and his supervisor always placed chocolates on the interns' desks before they even came in. He doesn't have much of a taste for sweets, but even he had to appreciate the gesture. He can't help but snicker when he imagines his father giving his employees chocolates for a holiday. He ignored the constant glances from the girl that he had dinner with a month or two ago, and those from the slightly creepy editor who he was sure was married. Perhaps the man who sent the giant basket of flowers on her desk was her third or fourth husband?

He honestly wouldn't feel too bad about the holiday even with the ogling, if it weren't for the fact that his office released a couple of romance titles at the beginning of every February. The shite he had to read for grammar and spell checks got exponentially worse around this time, and unfortunately the female editors in the office seemed to think that dumping all the romances on the male interns was funny. It really wasn't. He suspected they were written by lonely women to live their dreams on paper, to be bought by lonely women who wished they could write but couldn't and so settled for others' perfect love lives. Either way, compared to some of the brilliant literature that Muggles had produced over the centuries (he rebelled against the awe he felt after finishing some of the books at first, but that didn't last very long), contemporary romance novels were garbage. The only one that hadn't made him wrinkle his nose in disgust was a reprinted version of _Pride and Prejudice_ that he was saddled with editing.

In fact, he could even say he enjoyed it. Elizabeth Bennet, with her sharp wit and energy, seemed to be speaking to him with every line, entrancing him just as Darcy was. She's daring. She's confident. She's righteous. She's an unconventional beauty, with her potentially unremarkable brown hair. Darcy judges her before he even comes to know all of the things that he admires in her. But Darcy loves her eyes from the beginning, and so did he.

So did he.

He wonders what she would think if she knew that he still has a battered copy on his shelf, hidden behind books that fit his reputation more, or if she knew he's read it by himself every Valentine's Day. He wonders what she would think if she knew that a particular page is carefully bookmarked:

"But no sooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends that she hardly had a good feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes. To this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying. Though he had detected with a critical eye more than one failure of perfect symmetry in her form, he was forced to acknowledge her figure to be light and pleasing; and in spite of his asserting that her manners were not those of the fashionable world, he was caught by their easy playfulness. Of this she was perfectly unaware; to her he was only the man who made himself agreeable nowhere, and who had not thought her handsome enough to dance with."

In every one of his Valentine's Day letters to her, he asks if she would like to dance.

* * *

><p>She hates it still when Ginny fusses over her. While she appreciates and loves the fiery red-haired woman with all her heart, she sometimes thinks that Ginny can't take a hint. Or maybe she ignores the hints.<p>

So when Ginny insisted on going to a nice restaurant with her to celebrate the Holyhead Harpies' recent victory and for a girls' night out, she was instantly suspicious. But both Harry and Ron assured her Ginny hadn't done anything terrible that they knew of, and Ginny said she would pay for the meal, so she reluctantly agreed to go. Ginny, of course, squealed and immediately whisked her off to Twilfitt and Tatting's for a dress (there's a dress code at these places, Ginny had said), much to her chagrin. She realized what Ginny was up to, but she'd already given her word that she would go and Ginny wouldn't hear of her backing out. She figured she'd return the outrageously expensive dress when Ginny wasn't around to scold her.

So it wasn't much of a surprise when Ginny failed to show up at the restaurant, or when she found out that the Kenmare Kestrals' Seeker Aidan Kiely was sitting at the table supposedly reserved for her and Ginny. She heaved a sigh before politely taking a seat, unwilling to trouble the poor man further by leaving him there to eat by himself. After making quite an effort to keep up small talk (this, she told Ginny later on, was why she didn't date Quidditch players – the small talk always came back to Quidditch and it was general knowledge that she had absolutely no interest in the sport), she was relieved after dessert when he apologized for not being able to take her home, because he had a flight to Ireland. She was more than gracious, and secretly planned to stop by George's shop for some… presents for Ginny.

But she knew why Ginny had done this in the first place. She could count on one hand the number of dates she'd ever been on, and she knew that most of her friends had moved on and found companions, like Neville and Hannah. She told herself that she was too busy at the moment, and that no one would enjoy dating a workaholic who broke down from the stress every couple of weeks.

For all that, she ended up keeping the dress and writing down the name and address of the restaurant into a small journal. She still has the notebook in her desk drawer, since then filled with more addresses and little notes about the food or the atmosphere. All the restaurants were too upscale for her, places people would visit on a special anniversary or holiday, or if they were just ridiculously wealthy with a mansion in the countryside, like Wiltshire for example...

She can't help the sense of loss when she discovers that one of the restaurants on her list has closed.

* * *

><p><strong>REVIEWS, PLEASE?<strong>

**I'm taking suggestions for the vignettes. It can be anything from a theme (so far, that's what I've been doing, if you notice the titles of the chapters) to a place or a quote or a song or a book, just not ones that are too close to what I've already written. I have a bunch of scenarios, but 5 years even in story time is a long time.**

**I've also enabled anonymous reviews – positive or not, I'd love feedback or more questions.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	5. But With a Little Help From Friends

**Thanks to LittleMissNerdy, Preciousblue, and camou-191 for reviewing! And to rachelleloves17, poitras2003, PurePotter and sammy sosa the 13th for adding this to alert.**

**I honestly try really hard to respond to all my reviewers – I appreciate it so much. Thank you.**

**But in response to camou-191, YOU READ MY MIND! Some excerpts (a special treat, haha) will come... soon. And also in response, I wrote a particularly long chapter.**

**A note – I think I've established the characters enough that I can actually bring in other people into the story now. I don't know how successful I'll be without real dialogue, but it's time that something starts to change.**

**All rights to the Harry Potter series belong to J.K. Rowling, and I only take ownership of the plot.**

* * *

><p>He remembers the day he first found a letter in his mailbox. He admits that his heart leapt when he saw the envelope lodged between various bills and a notice for a newspaper subscription. To be honest, he actually found the Muggle news fascinating while he lived there – it was a welcome change from the increasingly gossip-based and narrowly focused <em>Daily Prophet<em>. Not that he had access to the _Prophet_. If only.

He was amazed to find news about wars or genocides that happened almost daily in some corner of the Muggle world, people slaughtered and murdered for this cause or another. Even farther in the past, he would've pointed at those articles on the front page and say that was why Muggles were inferior to wizards. But in all honesty, he had no right.

Wars were too familiar. Meaningless causes were too familiar. Deaths were too familiar.

His left forearms tingles still, just recalling those motionless photos that captured crying children, covered with dust and emaciated. It doesn't matter that the Mark had vanished the moment the Dark Lord died for the last time, or that he never managed to kill a person in the Dark Lord's name. How cruel wizards were, in a way – how easy it was to wave an arm and just watch someone writhing on the floor in unimaginable pain, pain that no Muggle instrument can ever inflict.

The agony he saw in Rowle's eyes will never leave him.

He tentatively dislodged the letter from the mailbox, slowly turning it around in hopes that the name written in the front was hers. He cursed at himself for being so childish, but felt his heart race again when he actually did see the name. _Blaise Zabini_ was written across the front in a recognizable scrawl that he had seen since childhood. On the upper hand corner, he could see the "return to sender" mark of the post office partially covered with a crookedly placed stamp.

On instinct, he looked around him to see if he was being watched. Was the Ministry keeping track of him? Or was this exile what it seemed like, utter solitude and brutal isolation? Could they track Muggle mail? Would they bother doing so? A million and half thoughts rushed in and out of his head as he stared at the envelope again. He sauntered into his flat at his leisure, in case anyone was watching, and quietly shut the door. He stood in the doorway, shoes still on, and ripped into the seam of the envelope without a moment of hesitation.

_Draco,_ began the letter.

_I hope this letter finds you somewhere near where I am, though I highly doubt it. I assume that know-it-all's been thorough about where she placed all of us. Funny, I used to think Britain's such a small place, but it turns out the world is big, my friend. Of course, when you can Apparate distance is meaningless, but that's not the case, is it?_

_I'm stuck at some school, mate. I thought I'd be over and done with studying after 7 years at Hogwarts, but here I am, in Edinburgh, trying to pass another exam. It's been tough – I'm sure it's been the same for you, but I knew nothing about Muggle things or what they study. At least it's kind of like Potions, in a way. I'm majoring in something called chemistry, apparently._

_Fortunately, being in a school means I'll have break in the summer. Which also means I'll need a place to live. All things coming together, I figured you'd be my best bet, since I assumed you'd have your own place. All that money's got to be used somewhere, am I right? _

_I'll grant Muggles this much – the computer is the single greatest thing I know other than magic. Sometimes it IS magic. I searched your name everywhere, and when I was about to give up, this creepy kid who sits in the back of the library offers to help for a fee. Turns out he's a hacker. Know what that is, mate? And what do you know? You're on a list of residents in Britain. And I mean ALL residents and their addresses. Don't even ask me to explain. I had half a mind to ask if he was a wizard. It was that impressive._

_So here I am, writing to you. How Slytherin of me to subvert the Ministry, isn't it? Just like the old days. Write me an email; I'll write the address at the bottom. There's no way you don't know how to write one, right? I never did like waiting for things._

_I have a lot to say to you in face. Even if I didn't, I'd settle for just seeing your face. I'd even be willing to see our "supervisor", so long as it's someone from our world._

Ah, Blaise, he thought. How much I would give to see her face.

He held the letter with a shaking hand, closing his eyes and leaning back against his front door.

He still thanks Blaise with all his heart for the epiphany that he had next, for the opportunity that Blaise had unknowingly bestowed upon him.

He was still clutching the letter in his hand when he threw himself down into the swivel chair at his desk. He grabbed a fresh pen, a fresh sheet of white, letter-sized paper. He held his nervous excitement back as his tried to control his wild hand, and wrote the first 'G' of her last name.

* * *

><p>She remembers the day that she officially became Ginny's roommate in London. Ginny had begged her, saying she couldn't stand the Harpies' dorms in Wales anymore. It's amazing what seven girls can do to a house that they live in for less than half the year, Ginny had said. And Holyhead is literally the middle of nowhere! But to afford the rent in wizarding London, which is where she'd wanted to live for forever, she needed a roommate.<p>

So as she dusted herself and her trunks off before stepping out of the fireplace, she found herself in a pleasantly spacious flat. It was roomier than she thought it would be, considering that it was in a building that was squeezed into the fringe of Diagon Alley. Ginny had said that she left the key on the table in the kitchen, telling her to make herself at home while she was off to practice in Wales. Being what she was, a bookworm, she went straight to the bookcase that was shoved into a nondescript corner of the living room. The position would have to be rectified, but in the meanwhile, she began to unpack her trunks and the large boxes that had already been moved into the flat the night before. She had even taken a brief day off from the office to settle in, making sure that the receptionist at the Ministry would forward her any reports she got from the exiled.

She remembers distinctly that she had been shelving her copy of _Magical Hieroglyphs and Logograms_ next to Ginny's copy of _The Beater's Bible_ (why Ginny had that book, she had no idea) when the fireplace lit with dancing flames that meant someone was asking for access. She realized it was Harry, who had volunteered to help her move in. She suspected that he had several ulterior motives and toiletries, but welcomed him nonetheless with a hearty hug. The Golden Trio (and Ginny, whenever she was in town) never missed their weekly Sunday brunches, but it was increasingly harder to see Harry or Ron for her. Either they were caught up with rounding up the last scattered Dark wizards, or she was too busy with the Exile Project. The boys told her she needed to sleep more and work less, to which she had replied with a laugh and said they needed to shower more and work less.

Harry stepped back from her hug with a grin, and lifted up his arm to show her that he brought lunch. Soon enough, the mountains of books that Hermione had been organizing – she had to enlarge the bookcase twice thus far – were pushed aside and the two old friends settled themselves on the floor holding cartons of fish and chips, with a healthy amount of pumpkin juice held in empty boxes transfigured into glasses.

It was only when Harry carefully brought up that he would spend quite a lot of time in the flat that she began to regret moving in at all. Harry and Ginny thankfully refrained from snogging or groping in public (at least, after she and Ron had hexed them both the twentieth time it happened while the four of them were together), but that didn't say much about their private lives. Suddenly, she felt like an intruder.

She looked down to the half-empty carton in her hands, unsure of what to say. Should she offer to move back out? Should she apologize? But when she looked back up into Harry's face, she lost all words.

She still remembers the immense sorrow on his face. It was verging on pity, but he knew her better than anyone and knew that she would never take pity from him. His next words were measured, spoken in a soothing baritone.

When had he gotten such a voice? She wondered. When had he grown so much?

Please stay with Ginny, he said. Please. For me and Ron, if you won't do it for yourself. You need to be with someone right now.

She heard nervous laughter bubble from her mouth.

I don't understand, Harry.

Harry shook his head.

I don't understand you either. You haven't told us something for months. Months! I see it in you – you forget that I've known you for the better part of a decade. What's wrong? Please, just tell me what's wrong.

Harry, nothing's wrong.

And it was true – nothing was wrong with her. It was the same things that she was always bothered by, which had made her study so hard to know everything in school.

Uncertainty. A terrible, lingering sense of uncertainty and inadequacy.

During the war, it had been mixed with the unending fear for their lives – the feeling that she wouldn't be able help Harry or Ron with the next curse thrown at them or know the cure for them. She couldn't tell him then. How could she? She'd said it before at the beginning of the Project, but they had waved it off and so had she. But it grown like ivy on trees, slowly overtaking her.

He looked like he wanted to argue, but held himself back. He reached out and took the carton of food from her, and laid her fork across the top. She suddenly felt stifled, nervous and ill at ease. A heavy silence hung over them, mingling with the dust from the old books scattered across the floor and the odor from their lunch.

Listen, he began again. Please stay with Ginny. It'll be a new start. If it's something from the War holding you back, it'll be a good beginning. Who knows what can happen if you start again from here? The world works in strange ways.

She remembers that she gave him a small smile, shuttering the emotions that threatened to well over. She gave him a squeeze when he hugged her, thanking him silently for his supportive words.

Maybe Harry's right, she thought. Maybe if I change things in my life…

She felt the sudden urge to go back to her old home and bid it goodbye, as if to make her newfound resolution official. So she picked up a handful of the green Floo powder and chucked it into the fireplace, shouting out the address of her former flat.

Checking the closets, cabinets, and the mailbox for the last time, she had to agree with Harry – the world did indeed work in strange ways.

She knew what it was before she even heard the insistent clack on the windowsill.

The simple, white envelope, tied to the leg of the owl, was a new beginning.

* * *

><p><strong>Whew. SO psyched to hear reviews about this chapter. I decided that a new development should happen at least every 5 chapters, though I stand by my pacing and development for every chapter in between.<strong>


	6. Facing the Truth

**Thanks to acrogirl5 for reviewing, and natasha-jade for favoriting!**

**I honestly just wanted to go straight into Hermione's point of view, but for the sake of consistency I start with Draco.**

**And a note – his trial was sometime in June, since the Battle of Hogwarts was in May. And Blaise is about to have summer break, which means approximately a year has passed since the beginning of the story.**

**For the purposes of this story, UNDERLINES are strikeouts. Can't do it in FFnet. Ugh.**

**I take no credit for the characters in this story – they belong to J.K. Rowling.**

* * *

><p>He remembers those tortuous few days of waiting for her reply. He knew he would have to wait, considering the speed of Muggle mail (Why didn't she have email? Wasn't she a Muggleborn?). No wonder people called it snail mail. He had outgrown the impatience of his younger years – in the War, all he could do was wait, even after his family and he had walked out of the final battle at Hogwarts – but this was eating away at him.<p>

He contacted Blaise as soon as he had written the letter to her, and had Blaise's phone number saved on speed dial (he was immensely proud of himself for having figured it out by himself without a manual). The first time he spoke with Blaise on the phone, he was startled by how normal Blaise sounded.

It was a short conversation. Neither had ever been particularly expressive in their friendship, although he held the most respect and amity for Blaise for having stayed out of the War for as much as possible. A few words about Blaise's impending arrival in London and subsequent stay with him, and a few words about the wizarding world was all the conversation was.

But – to his infinite surprise – Blaise sounded… happy. Was it being away from his sorry excuse of a mother? Was it being away from the tiny insular community of the wizarding world? Did he even miss home as much as he claimed?

Blaise was much more technologically savvy than he was, almost irritatingly so. His phone had started beeping in the middle of the night, startling him out of sleep and causing him to bump his head against the wall. Cursing loudly into the rapidly warming night air, he stumbled out of bed and had to squint at the message on the phone.

_Will be in London on the 3rd. Kings Crossing at 2 pm, c u then._

He had to read the last part twice to understand what Blaise was saying. Scowling, he checked the time – 6:30 am. Some things would never change, he thought; Blaise was still the inconsiderate arse he always was, no matter how much he ignored proper spelling or adapted to Muggle knowledge. And while he knows that Muggle technology really does make communication efficient, he still can't help but be bothered by how impersonal it all is.

Now that he's thought about it, he's glad that she doesn't have email. He would prefer an owl any day over email, if only to see her neat, orderly handwriting on parchment.

He threw the phone on his pillow and shuffled out into the kitchen for a cup of coffee.

* * *

><p><span>Hermione -<span>

Granger -

You must be surprised to receive this letter. I know it's unusual for me, but I thought it would be best to tell you now rather than later

I am writing you a letter earlier than usual; it's not a report

I want to inform you that I will house

I believe it is part of my duty to tell you whenever a situation has risen during my stay in the Muggle world. I suppose this is as a situation, one that I am particularly cautious about.

I have come in contact with Blaise Zabini, who, as you know, is in the same position as myself. It seems he needs a place to stay during the summer holidays, and in desperation found me somehow. I am both able and willing to provide him a temporary home, but I assume I will need your approval for this matter.

I sincerely hope that you will allow it. I know that the terms of my sentence say that I am not permitted to contact any individual that belongs to the Wizarding world, but technically speaking he is not a member of that society at the moment. Both of us will abide by the rules set by the Ministry, as we have studiously done thus far.

I will await your reply. I ask that you contact me as soon as possible.

Yours,

Sincerely,

Draco Malfoy

* * *

><p>She still has the letter in the same shoebox with the postcards he sent. The paper has smudged fingerprints at the sides from being held for so long. She's tried to read through the white-out that was caked onto the sheet, and even went so far to try and scratch it off where it wasn't covered by writing. She wonders even now why he had been so sloppy and out of character while writing it. Perhaps it was just the anticipation of seeing Zabini again?<p>

But she couldn't hide the jolt of happiness it brought her. He wanted to talk to her! Granted, it was for a very specific purpose. But the fact that he told her at all (to be honest, the Ministry was woefully understaffed and there was no way she would've been able to know had Zabini moved into his house), and the fact that he expected an answer from her, was more than she could've hoped for in the past year of bland postcards. And not only was it the longest letter she'd gotten from him yet, but it was also the only one she could detect any sort of sentiment from him. The postcards had been too short and clipped for her to even begin to understand what he might've been thinking while writing them.

He wasn't hostile. He wasn't threatening. He wasn't even arrogant.

He was respectful, even hopeful.

Yes, the letter was formal and to the point, but was she wrong to think that all the white-out meant he had spent quite a lot of time on it?

Once she could get out of the mental high that the letter put her in, she was aware she had a professional decision to make. To let him be in contact with Zabini would distort the purpose of the Exile Project, which was to completely separate them from the Wizarding world and force them to eke out a position in the Muggle world on their own. But on one hand, she didn't want them to be unhappy (though, she mused, too late for that now, wasn't it?). If having one friend brought him some happiness, who was she to deny it?

Oh, that's right. Her integrity was hanging on this Project. If she let Zabini stay with him, then she would have to make the same allowance for every exiled if they found one another. And she was sure that some of the more unsavory characters than either of them would try and use it somehow to undermine the Project.

What to do, what to do…

In the end, it was a little crack in the white-out that made her decision for her. After reading it for the 17th time, a fleck had broken off under where he had signed his name. Unable to contain her curiosity, she carefully picked off the fleck.

Yours.

The word, reluctantly uncovered, was scrutinized under her intent stare. She doesn't know how long she sat there, merely looking at the word, trying hard to tighten her control over herself lest she break down and sobbed.

Yours.

She doesn't even remember what she wrote in her reply, with a trembling hand and tear-streaked face that couldn't even begin to express the unimaginable panic and happiness that threatened to overwhelm her. Before she could even change her mind, she quickly tied the letter to the leg of her office owl, the one that had delivered the letter to her and would find him, wherever he was.

Sitting in the empty space of her old apartment, she realized that this is the moment of truth. This is what she'd been trying to hide from. Years later, she knows that this tiny revelation gave her strength for the next four dizzying years of the Project.

Yours.

This is the moment she realizes that she is his.


	7. How to Read Between the Lines

**Thanks to Celestine Alexis, Preciousblue, camou-191 and PurePotter for reviewing! Also to jayel-amethyst, WifeofWhimsy and Phnxgirl for adding to alert.**

**Yay, plot development! I think I'm going to fudge the progression of time a bit, so the time between every chapter is not equal. So just because it took me 6 chapters to get to the one-year mark doesn't mean it'll take me that length to get to the second year (though my inner OCD self rebels).**

**But I do have to say that I can't continue to update at the same breakneck speed. Please understand – I promise I won't have you hanging for more than a few days to a week, at most.**

**Again, underlining is a strikeout!**

**All rights to Harry Potter belong to J.K. Rowling.**

* * *

><p>He goes there quite often now, but Kings Cross Station on that particular June 3th was a strange experience. He'd never seen the Muggle platform other than in passing – Platform 9-34 was always his immediate destination, and he'd never felt the compulsion to look around.

No, that was a lie. He had looked around with fascination on his first year, and his father had sharply tapped him on the back with his cane to prod him into walking on.

Standing at the platform edge, waiting for the train from Edinburgh, he couldn't hide his discomfit or the slight sense of foreboding. He wanted to see Blaise, of course, but the sense of convergence between his two worlds was bizarre. He always considered his Muggle life to be irreconcilably separate from his wizarding one, and if he was being totally honest, rather basked in the obscurity and the simplicity of his quiet lifestyle. Waiting for Blaise, he suddenly felt a morbid curiosity – would he have been the same person he is now, if he hadn't been born into his particular family with all its nobility and wealth?

Would he have been friends with Potter from that moment on Platform 9-3/4, then? Would he have been sorted into Gryffindor? Would he have laughed with Weasley and glared at Blaise or Pansy?

Would he have had a chance with her?

The shriek of a train pulling into the station jolted him out of his thoughts. He winced at the piercing noise, and then stepped back against the wall to face the opening doors of the train as people began to stream out like brightly colored ants. He scowled, unable to spot Blaise even with his impressive height. He was still scanning the thinning crowd with an alert expression when Blaise tapped him on the shoulder. He whirled on Blaise, his face finally relaxing into a faint grin when Blaise clapped him on the back, chuckling.

I could spot you from a mile away, mate. That hair doesn't go anywhere, does it? said Blaise.

Blaise looked remarkably same, but the happiness he'd noted over the phone was still alive in his face. Edinburgh had clearly been good for him, no matter what he'd said. He wondered what Blaise saw on his own face that made him peer at his face intently.

You got thinner, said Blaise.

His head snapped up at the comment. He heard incredulous laughter from his own mouth.

That makes no sense. I spent the year before last fearing for my life, and I've been exceptionally lazy in the last couple of months. If anything, I should've gained weight.

Sure. If you say so.

With that last cryptic statement, Zabini turned on his heel and headed toward the exit of the platform, quirking his head to the side to motion to follow.

Maddening, Blaise Zabini was. Just maddening.

Outside of the station, the rare London sun had shown its face. Blaise squinted in the light, abruptly stopping just outside the door, the traveling trunk rolling to a halt next to him.

You're blocking the door, Zabini.

Blaise only smirked.

Your hair may be the same, but your foul mouth ran away somewhere. And are you wearing a Polo?

He pushed past Blaise, ignoring the backtalk, and headed down the street. The throng of people that busily went about on their daily businesses parted for him and Blaise, whose trunk rattled as it rolled on the sidewalk. A twist down Frederick Street and through Percy Circus, and the two men could see Holford Gardens. They turned down Cruikshank Road, reaching a non-descript two-story house.

This is where you live? asked Blaise, an eyebrow raised.

He scowled at Blaise's amused expression, turning the key into the front door lock.

Yes, and it's only the second floor.

What, your almighty parents not giving you enough of the fortune? Or did your sentence include a ban on your accounts?

Bugger off, Blaise. I chose to live here. It's close to my workplace.

If you say so.

The moment they climbed the stairs to his flat, he heard the familiar flapping of wings just outside his window and froze. He quickly thought back to that morning, when he had scanned every room twice for any traces he may have left of his impromptu letters to her. Bloody owl, why did it have to come just then?

Is that an owl? asked an incredulous Blaise. How? Do you talk with someone from back home?

No, he muttered as he stepped into the flat. Not really.

He opened the window for the owl, who gave him a reproachful peck on the hand. It'd been waiting for a while, but he had no treats to give, much to his dismay. He ran a hand through his hair and headed to the refrigerator, leaving Blaise staring with fascination at the bird. It hooted, disgruntled. He found cheese in the refrigerator from the spaghetti he'd made the other day, and shoved the wedge into Blaise's hand to feed the owl as he untied the letter.

Bloody, bloody hell. He didn't want Blaise to be there when he read it – he wanted it to be personal, not to mention that he might not be able to control his face that well. Dash it all. What if she'd written no? What was he going to do then?

Well, mate? Aren't you going to open it? Who's it from?

Shut up, Blaise. I'm going to read it in my room.

Yeah, but who's it from?

He ignored Blaise and stalked into his bedroom, locking the door with an already clumsy hand.

He tore the seal open, exhaling just a bit shakily.

* * *

><p>Mr. Malfoy,<p>

Thank you for informing me that Mr. Zabini will be staying with you for the summer. I had actually been hard-pressed to find him a residence for the duration of his vacation, so thank you for your help as well.

That being said, please be aware that this does present a problem. I won't object to Mr. Zabini's temporary residence or correspondence with you, but I ask that both you and he refrain from contacting other exiled individuals. Doing so would force me to report to the Wizengamot, and I don't wish to place you in a more difficult spot than you are already in.

I hope the last year hasn't been too hard on you. I wish I'd done things differently I only wanted to help you see that I'm just a person Muggles are people, just different.

I won't make excuses. But I hope when you come back, you'll be glad to receive my welcome.

Sincerely,

Hermione Granger

* * *

><p>She remembers the day that Narcissa Malfoy came to visit her. She heard the rap on the door and told the person to come in before she even noted the shadow on her door. She only looked up when she heard the door close quietly, the hinge she'd been forgetting to fix squeaking slightly.<p>

She remembers how beautiful Narcissa Malfoy was, even after all the hardship and grief she'd probably gone through. It's only now that she can see a touch of age in her, now that she's seen Mrs. Malfoy more often. But the sort of ethereal beauty in Mrs. Malfoy hasn't faded, even still. In fact, she could even say Narcissa Malfoy is even more breathtaking now than before, after a year with her entire family safe by her side.

She wishes that when she becomes older, she will even have an inch of Mrs. Malfoy's natural grace.

I must have surprised you, began Mrs. Malfoy. I apologize for the sudden visit.

She rapidly shook her head. She waved the wand at her side, so that Mrs. Malfoy could sit in front of her desk. On a second thought, she conjured a cushion onto the wooden seat. Surprisingly, the older woman faintly smiled at her for the gesture. The expression was such a far cry from the resentful look the woman had sent her in a courtroom a year ago that she wondered if Mrs. Malfoy somehow knew that she granted his request to have Zabini stay with him for the summer.

Mrs. Malfoy, how can I help you? she asked, in a voice that was as collected as possible.

I've come to ask a favor of you, although I understand if you refuse.

How bizarre that both the mother and son would ask for something from her, of all people. Her remorse at having separated the two held back a sharp retort that would've escaped her in any other circumstance. Well. The tables certainly had turned.

What would you like for me to do? she asked, consciously polite.

Mrs. Malfoy warily looked at her, as if she suddenly regretted her decision to come to the Ministry. After a moment of hesitation, she pulled out a package wrapped in silver foil, topped with a green ribbon decoration that was most certainly pure satin.

It's his birthday tomorrow, whispered Mrs. Malfoy. I hadn't been able to give him anything for the past two years…

Yes, they were all busy fighting a War to really care about birthdays, weren't they? She suddenly recalled that she'd forgotten to give Ron a birthday present in the last year of the War – in March they'd been too preoccupied with staying alive.

And you'd like for me to send the present to him?

Yes. I assumed you wouldn't give me his address. Again, I understand if you refuse.

She glanced at the present, and then at the woman who'd entrusted it to her care. How could she even refuse? She imagined Mrs. Malfoy was much more distraught than she seemed at the moment, so much more resentful and angry and hurt. Perhaps there was nothing better that the older woman wanted to do than burn her on a pyre for condemning her son to a supposedly loathsome lifestyle.

And she'd apologize to Narcissa Malfoy as she was being burnt.

I'll send it to him, she said. Is it fragile?

No, said Mrs. Malfoy with quiet relief. It should be deliverable by owl.

She nodded, both to herself and her guest. The woman stared at her intently, her stormy blue eyes fixed on her face. She held Mrs. Malfoy's gaze without flinching. The color was different, but the unreadable expression was the same as his when he had looked at her in the courtroom.

Are you busy today, Mrs. Malfoy? she heard herself say.

The regal lady of Malfoy Manor betrayed no surprise.

No, I am not.

Well then. Would you like… no. Would you mind having tea with me?

Mrs. Malfoy blinked.

Darjeeling, Ms. Granger?

* * *

><p><strong>Review, please? Pleaseeeeeee?<strong>


	8. Birthday Happenings

**Thanks to kukunamuniu for subscribing to alerts! And thanks again to PurePotter and Celestine Alexis for reviewing!**

**PLEASE review - I've been noticing the lack of responses, and can't help but feel that maybe I'm veering off of my original course.**

**And as for the lack of quotation marks, it was intentional - I might be getting too cerebral, but the idea was that all dialogue contributes to the characters' understanding of themselves, and therefore belongs as part of the narrative. I never meant to have dialogue at all actually until they met again. I'll use quotation marks at that point.**

**J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter. I own _Two Boxes of Memories_.**

* * *

><p>He recalls waking up to Blaise's snores on the sitting room couch. Four, five, six… twelve, thirteen, fourteen. He counted each snore, willing himself to go back to sleep. It was too early in the morning – he'd even managed to get himself out of Blaise's plans to get hopelessly drunk again on his second night in London, arguing that he had work the next day. He'd taken two days off to help his friend settle into the city, but he did have to go back that morning.<p>

Well, aren't we a responsible little thing? Blaise had said, his eyebrows quirked in amusement. Maybe she's rubbing off on you.

Who?

Our supervisor, that's who.

What are you talking about, Blaise?

She's the only one I can think of who can even send you a letter. That happen often?

He's still proud of himself for having hid his emotions perfectly, not that it would've mattered in two days.

Not at all. I had to inform her you were coming.

What for? You arse, you wanted an excuse to tell me no, didn't you?

I'd have done that by phone, you idiot, he'd replied, irritated.

He finally decided to get up and just drink an extra cup of coffee that morning, when the snoring suddenly stopped. He pushed back the covers, slightly alarmed. Did another owl come? Was it her? Did she forget to say something in her last letter?

Her letter. It wasn't her last letter after all, but the first he'd ever received from her. It's still nestled between his letters to her and her other letters to him, in the box lying on his bedroom drawer of the Manor. Back then, he thought about hiding it more securely from Blaise, but if the bastard ever found it hidden away, then he would dig through it like there was no tomorrow.

And if Blaise Zabini ever did look through that box, he would personally make sure his friend never saw the light of tomorrow ever again.

The thought of Blaise receiving the owl horrified him beyond anything else, even though whatever she wrote in the letter would be formal. Then again, maybe not. He remembered the last few lines by heart until he received her next long note.

She wanted to help him. She hoped that he didn't suffer in the Muggle world.

She'll welcome him when he goes back.

He'd clamped down on the torrents of thoughts and emotions that rushed at him when he read the letter for the first time. He couldn't show any of what he felt on his face, not with Blaise there. So he'd bitten his lip, reread and reread the letter until it only formed disconnected words in his mind. An old, resentful part of him wanted to be angry at her again, but he couldn't bring himself to do it.

She'll welcome him when he goes back.

She'll…

You've got mail, mate!

Blaise's voice broke him out of his reverie. He quickly adjusted his expression and opened the door of his bedroom, to see an owl hopping around his furniture and Blaise holding a silver package.

Didn't your mother ever teach you not to touch other people's things? he said, mildly irritated that Blaise had touched the package.

You know my mother. Never did much teaching.

He held his tongue, and only reached out to pluck the package from Blaise's hands. Blaise didn't seem hurt in the least, but that was thoughtless of him. Not that he hadn't said those kinds of things to Blaise when they were in Hogwarts. Merlin, he'd been stupid when he was younger.

I almost forgot, said Blaise. Happy birthday, you spoiled git.

Why, thank you.

So that's what it was. It was a gift. The owl was hers, but the wrappings clearly said that the gift wasn't from her. He felt a small pang of disappointment that he brushed away with a sharp rebuke at his inner self. Why would she give him a birthday gift? It was probably from his mother, who asked her to send the gift to him.

Sure enough, the small card tucked into the inner lining of the wrapping was written in his mother's elegant handwriting. It was short and to the point, wishing him a happy birthday and hoping that he wasn't having a difficult time.

And of course his father is fine. Ah, good old mother.

But to think his mother would even go to her to send him a gift… At Blaise's urging, he tore open the foil and stared at the Remembrall encased within an ornate rosewood box. Blaise looked over his shoulder at the gift, dumbfounded at first, but broke into wild laughter.

Your mum doesn't know a thing about the incident in first year with Longbottom, does she? asked Blaise.

He shook his head. A Remembrall? He turned it over in his hand, looking for any inscriptions. Sure enough, there was one etched into the glass at the top – 'For the times you want to remember and forget'. How cryptic of his mother. Blaise held out his hand to examine the inscription at the top as well, and he handed his friend the Remembrall, heading for the kitchen for that belated cup of coffee.

He stopped when he saw scarlet smoke beginning to swirl inside the glass ball in Blaise's hand. Blaise frowned momentarily at the object, before his face brightened. He leapt from the couch, and began to dig through his already disorganized trunk. Moments later, he held out a small case.

Here. Almost forgot to give you your birthday present.

I'm surprised you remembered.

Blaise chuckled, and shoved the case into his hand before strolling off to the bathroom.

What is it? he asked after opening it, confused.

It's an iPod. You know, the thing you listen to music with.

He turned over the sleek object in his hand, another inscription at the top surprising him.

To my friend, wherever he is.

The faucet in the bathroom turned on just as he was about to say his thanks, the sound of the water drowning out his voice.

* * *

><p>She distinctly remembers the scent of jasmine tea – it wasn't Darjeeling, as Mrs. Malfoy had suggested – wafting throughout the private tearoom at the back of the shop in Diagon Alley. The lady of Malfoy Manor sat in front of her, sunlight landing on the sleek blond hair and illuminating her head as if in a halo. They sat in silence, and she briefly wondered what had possessed her to ask the woman to tea and what had possessed the woman to accept. But the silence wasn't uncomfortable. Perhaps it was because Mrs. Malfoy betrayed no discomfort, or because she herself relished the chance to be outside the often claustrophobic atmosphere of her office and the Ministry.<p>

May I ask how he's doing? asked the woman in a soft voice.

He doesn't tell me much. But I suppose he's doing as well as he can, under the circumstances.

She sipped her own tea, feeling the pleasantly hot liquid trickle down her throat. The tearoom was airy and even slightly chilled against the creeping heat of June. She could feel Mrs. Malfoy glancing at her over the rim of her fine china, but enjoyed the tea at her leisure regardless.

Yes. Under the circumstances.

She heard the unspoken accusation in the carefully neutral words, and struggled within herself whether to acknowledge it or ignore it. It sent a pang through her heart either way. Finally, she decided to show the stronger front.

I won't apologize for his sentence, Mrs. Malfoy.

I didn't expect you to.

No, please let me finish.

The older woman put her cup down delicately on the saucer, hardly making a sound. She folded her hands on her knee and gave her full attention, the storm in her eyes disquieting.

But I will apologize for what you and he must be going through. I know your family has only recently reunited, and I feel a tremendous amount of burden for having taken away what little peace you must've achieved.

She wanted to wipe that impassive face off of Mrs. Malfoy's face. She wondered if he would have the same face when he inevitably came to meet her four years later.

And your family? asked Mrs. Malfoy, so quietly that she had to strain to hear what the woman was asking.

She stopped mid-sip. She refused to see Mrs. Malfoy's face just then, her mind going blank and quiet as a newly fallen sheet of snow. Outside, a small tinkling of laughter trickled through the open windows of the tearoom.

How long had it been since someone asked that question?

How long had it been since she asked that question to herself?

In Australia, she replied, just as quietly as the question had been asked. Living as Monica and Wendell Wilkins.

Mrs. Malfoy was silent. She hadn't moved a finger. Another light breeze floated through the room and played with the strands of the older woman's fine blond wisps. It was a while before the woman spoke again, picking up her teacup once more.

Then you're not the one who must apologize.

The two women were silent again. There was the distant sound of a small bell ringing, and the light voice of the shopkeeper welcoming a new customer. The scent of jasmine was getting weaker, but she found that tea in the summer was soothing regardless of the temperature of the actual drink. She took solace in the perfume of the flower, the tide of sorrow ebbing in her mind. It was really far too late to still grieve.

If my apology could turn time and bring back your parents and my son, then I would gladly do so.

She waited.

Nor can I apologize for whatever bigotry the Light accused me of, continued Mrs. Malfoy. Frankly, I am still the same individual.

She still waited.

But I will not be a hypocrite. If I consider my family to be precious, I understand yours must be so to you. And I am aware that I will eventually see my son again – but that you may never see yours.

Mrs. Malfoy met her eyes, a light in those depths that spoke of mutual understanding regardless of everything else.

So I believe it's most appropriate for me to express my thanks for all you've done. Even for defeating the Dark Lord.

Incredulous laughter seeped out of her mouth at the last comment. Mrs. Malfoy narrowed her eyes almost imperceptibly, but said nothing.

That's hard to believe.

Is it? My son would've suffered at his hands, and that would've been eternal. I've had to reconsider many things – least of all my former allegiance to the Dark Lord. And yes, I know the irony of serving a half-blood who touts pureblood ideals.

Then why? Why did you?

The regal woman in front of her seemed to grow taller, haughtier. The storm in blue eyes returned, to meet righteousness in brown eyes. The light breeze in the room was still present, but a thick tension pervaded the space between the two women so that the room seemed to drop in temperature.

But all at once, Mrs. Malfoy seemed to deflate. Suddenly, the woman looked tired beyond her beauty, beyond her still-young years, and beyond whatever misguided past plagued her.

What good will my answer do now, when it's all over? asked Mrs. Malfoy, shaking her head slowly, as if to break herself out of a bad dream.

She remembers that as she lied awake in her bed that night, Mrs. Malfoy's exhausted face haunted her. That last expression was so unlike the stoic picture she'd presented throughout their time in the tearoom.

She wonders even now if that's how he feels. Tired. Lost. Defeated.

She should've answered Mrs. Malfoy's question – that she wanted to understand, finally understand why anyone would ever support such a maniac, why she'd put herself through so much pain and grief, why she had to fight people who'd never given her a chance from the start.

She had to understand to forgive.

And she had to forgive him, to forgive herself for being in love with him.


	9. Unbidden Thoughts and Confessions

**Thanks to camou-191, PurePotter, and Preciousblue again for the encouraging review! I really do need them. And thanks to bicycletracks and MySweetEclipse for reviewing and Owling for adding to alert as well.**

**Back to my original style, with minimal dialogue and a lot more internal struggle.**

**And the letter at the end is one of those letters that he writes and never sends - the ones that he stuffs in the back of his box. He's still only sending her postcards.**

**J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter. I own ****_Two Boxes of Memories_****.**

* * *

><p>His head aches when he hears loud music. It was true then in the roaring Muggle club, and it's true now. He prefers to sit in silence with a book, maybe with acoustic music or softer songs he suspects she might like. So it was with great reluctance that Blaise dragged him to the club, which was really just a metal door in a wall with a burly man standing in front of it. He wrinkled his nose in distaste at all the graffiti that marked the walls in a haphazard pattern, covering each other and being covered by new ones. He glared at Blaise, who laughed off the deadly glint in his eyes knowing that he wasn't capable of hurting anyone anymore, if he ever was in the first place.<p>

He didn't care much for the Muggle girls in the club, their overdone makeup and sparkling outfits only amplifying his headache. The heavy baseline of the electronic music throbbed in his eardrums and shook the floor beneath him, and he seriously hoped that the third martini would do something to smother the overwhelming sounds. He waved off girls that swayed over to him with curious expressions (no wonder, considering he was wearing a plain t-shirt and jeans) that also held a distinct predatory gleam he didn't find pleasing in the least. He longed to be home, not with these slags, but with…

He drained the glass with a frown. These unbidden thoughts have been coming too often now, so often that he really just took them at face value and didn't even bother berating himself for them.

Blaise suddenly laid both his hands on his shoulders, causing his eyebrows to knit even more. His friend waggled his eyebrows, and leered at a girl in a much too tight black dress who passed by them. He shrugged off Blaise's hands in favor of another glass, beckoning the bartender closer with a crooked finger. Blaise rolled his eyes and went back out to the dance floor, plainly enjoying the girls who shot him appreciative looks and sauntered over to join him in the pulsating beats of the music.

There was a time when he would've joined Blaise, but that was before the War and this whole affair in the Muggle world. He swirled the liquid in his new glass, when a pale hand and caramel-colored locks of hair shot into his view. He sputtered, spilling some of the drink onto himself and cursed loudly. Thanking the rumble of the music around him that covered his annoyed yelp, he suddenly snapped his head back up, searching for the owner of the hand and the haunting shade of hair. He had half a mind to stand up on the bar stool, but the woozy feeling overtook him at the last second and he tripped slightly over the cuffs of his own jeans. Muttering a steady string of profanities, he dizzily navigated the club through the heated bodies and heady sweat. Bloody shite. Where was she?

He remembers this first and last night at the club as the most sobering event of his exile. He doesn't even remember how or why he ended up against a wall facing the bathroom in the back of the club, or how long he stood there. He doesn't exactly remember Blaise coming to get him later, or standing outside in the alley and vomiting his brains out. Funny, because he's positive that he can hold a lot more alcohol than what he'd consumed that night.

He did see the girl. Up close, it was obvious that her hair was dyed, considering that the roots were a much darker shade than the rest. She was slim, but in that anorexic way that had always disgusted him in Muggle magazines and_ Witch Weekly_ alike. The girl's pale hand had painted nails, black – a color she would never have chosen. A gaudy dress of stripes and sequins, black pumps that would've toppled a normal human being, and overdone makeup around the eyes that made them seem dusty with chalk completed this girl.

Wiping the vomit from his mouth, he's pretty sure he told Blaise that he had it bad, so, so bad. Irrecoverably, unreasonably bad. He has to give credit to Blaise for not bringing it up the morning after, and really for the rest of the four years he came to visit London.

Damn it all. He might as well admit it by now, and give the right name to the heart palpitations he'd felt when looking for the elusive girl.

He, the spineless, pitiful bastard he was, was in love with the most deserving heroine of the century.

He remembers this as the day when his letters began to end with a confession.

* * *

><p>She remembers cutting her hair and dyeing it blond in a fit of adventurousness. Ginny had first been horrified, then amused, then back to horrified. Her redheaded friend had eyed her carefully, glancing around the flat they shared for changes, looking like she expected a dead cat to suddenly spring from the floorboards. She observed Ginny with a grin on her face, secretly congratulating herself for her daring choice. Although, to be honest, she'd felt a strange compulsion to do it – she felt that she owed it to herself to change something outwardly to reflect what had changed internally.<p>

Ginny, being who she was, came around soon enough. She nagged about the need for a new wardrobe to fit her new hairstyle, got excited over the prospect of showing Harry and Ron her transformation, and looked through her subscriptions of _Witch Weekly_ to read any fashion tips for blondes. She, of course, waved off all of Ginny's plans and schemes with a laugh and went on with life as usual. It was a while before she realized that Ginny's antics made her laugh – really made her laugh. Harry was right, after all. Even with the occasional embarrassing moments – like the time she caught Ginny and him snogging in the kitchen when she walked in to boil a cup of tea – having a roommate was good for her. Especially when it was Ginny, who was always so astute and knew just what to say and do even when she was in one of her bad spells.

Was it the hairstyle? Was she finally getting over the losses from the War? She found it easier to laugh with Harry and Ron when sitting in the Leaky Cauldron for lunch or in Three Broomsticks for a quick tankard of butterbeer. She found it easier to wake up in the morning, found her footsteps lighter even in the same dreariness of the Ministry. She looked forward to Sunday brunches at the Burrow, took solace in Molly Weasley's motherly fussing or Arthur Weasley's comforting solidity, in the general havoc of the most welcoming family she'd ever known since she'd learned that she was a witch.

Even with autumn fast approaching, she felt warm and at peace for the first time in a very long time.

She'd even picked up a book at last, to read solely for pleasure on the weekends or during increasingly colder nights with a hot cup of flower-scented tea.

She couldn't exactly name what had changed in her.

Other than the whole, I-realized-that-I-happen-to-be-in-love-with-my-former-enemy thing.

Even that, once she admitted it to herself, was easier to live with. How bizarre it was, being so serene with an idea that would've horrified her back in Hogwarts.

How bizarre and utterly strange it still is, to feel her heart flutter when she sees him... and being all right with it.

She likes to think it's her innate pragmatism which made her accept this as what it is – but she knows she's too idealistic for that to be true, if S.P.E.W. was any indication. Everything about her feelings toward him is uncertain and surreal – she can't help but be worried sometimes, questioning her sanity.

She's still alarmed by the little thoughts that sneak up on her when she's least aware, which started around the same time she slowly began to regain her ability to find happiness in the little things in life. Looking in the bathroom mirror before work, she wondered if he'd like the blond hair. Reading about old medicinal runic texts, she imagined having a heated discussion with him about the particularities of a translation published in 1888 versus a modern one released in the past year. Listening to Harry and Ron fight about the qualities of a Chaser in the recent match between the Chudley Cannons and Puddlemere United, she wondered if he'd be able to explain just what in the world her best friends were going on about.

They were unbidden thoughts. But she let them come, and let herself speculate all she wanted.

After all, what she imagined was probably better than what reality had to offer.

And she'd rather have the little bursts of happiness that come with these thoughts, rather than go back to how she used to be.

* * *

><p>Hermione:<p>

Do you remember the girl I told you I almost went on a date with? You probably won't care, but she's finally left the office to take up a permanent job offer in a publishing house across town. Thank Merlin, I couldn't stand being in the same room with her sometimes, just too uncomfortable. And no, I'm not just making excuses to you.

Blaise also left to go back to Edinburgh today. We shared an immensely awkward hug in the middle of the platform, so I thought it was all right that I didn't wait for the train to leave once he boarded. All those manners that were drilled into me since birth are all for naught, aren't they? My mother would give me that frown of hers – it's not even really a frown, more like a slight tightening around the mouth. Her eyes don't actually change all that much.

They're a brilliant blue, my mother's eyes. I wish occasionally I had her eyes instead of my father's. Did you know I hated being told I looked like him?

Anyway, since that girl left the office, another intern took her spot. His name is Everett Holloway – a miserably outdated name if I ever heard one. Then again, I'm not one to talk. At least my name has to do with an impressive magical creature, while his has to do something with a boar. I'm not making fun of him – he said this all himself during his self-introduction. He's decent, I suppose. Got humor and all that. Easygoing. You'd like him.

I promise this isn't a date. I don't… swing that way. But he did invite me to go for drinks at a bar to watch the next football match between Manchester United and Arsenal. Of course, we're both on the side of Arsenal, since I live in Islington and Holloway does too, in Finsbury district (he doesn't live in the Holloway district, which actually exists within Islington – another laughing point about him). I can't say I was a big football fan from the start, but it's hard not to get involved since every Muggle I know is practically obsessed with the game. And it's not like I have Quidditch to distract me.

Not that I'm blaming you. Maybe it's because it's been a while since I've been back home, so I can think reasonably about this, but I deserved this, didn't I? More than anyone. Certainly more than Blaise. After all, I was the one that let all of them into Hogwarts with the Vanishing Cabinets. You would be right to hate me for it – I don't have the right to blame you for anything.

But – but Hermione, would it be all right if I said I was happy? That I enjoy watching Arsenal games with Holloway, or that I'm proud of myself whenever I see a manuscript I helped edit at one point in a bookstore?

I know this is supposed to be a punishment, to live among people that I despised for the better part of my entire life – but I'm happy. Maybe not happy in the true sense of the word, but content. Yes. Content. That's the word. I could think of things missing in my life right now, things that would make me infinitely happier.

I'm sorry I'm such a sappy bugger. I didn't know this about myself either. I'm sorry for writing you yet another letter. I'm sorry I'm not miserable enough, if that makes any sense.

And I'm sorry, Hermione – sorry that you have such a useless bloke in love with you.

Yours,

Draco Malfoy

* * *

><p><strong>I LOVED writing this chapter! And camou-191, I kept my promise to you.<strong>

**REVIEWS PLEASE! Much love for all my faithful readers.**


	10. At Separate Tables

**Thanks to Owling for reviewing! Also thanks to oh nargles and Deep is desire not love for adding this story to alert.**

**So I've been finding that Hermione is much harder to write than Draco. She's just got fewer revelations to make about herself, while he obviously has tons to face about his prejudices and spoiled upbringing. As for the timeline, I decided that I don't want this story to be a million chapters long – which means time will speed up a bit.**

**J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter. I own _Two Boxes of Memories_.**

* * *

><p>She remembers a particular Sunday brunch at the Weasleys'. It was the middle of the day, but the dismal snowstorm and the nipping cold was enough to make one believe that it was the dead of night, with only the pale shroud of snow lighting the garden path outside of the Burrow. And yet, the whole family was miraculously gathered in the tiny space of the Weasleys' kitchen and dining room. And by 'whole family', she means the entire family of redheads plus its extended members – Harry, Lavender, Angelina, Fleur, and Percy's wife.<p>

And of course, herself.

As every Burrow brunch was, it was a raucous affair. No one remembered who cast the cleaning charms on the innumerable pots and pans, or who exactly was in charge of the gnome extermination that week. The malfunctioning oven kept going off every 10 minutes, driving a very pregnant Angelina insane, so that George eventually cast a silencing spell on the oven that resulted in a heavily burnt chicken. That particular day, Harry had even brought Teddy to add to the frenzy.

So she was stuck with watching Teddy for the day. Bill, Mrs. Weasley, and Ginny had shooed her out of the kitchen a long time ago, Ginny throwing a veiled comment about her cooking skills (or the lack thereof) with a joke about how hard it was to live with her. At least Fleur shared her fate regarding the food preparation. Then again, Fleur hated cooking, Bill had said with a wink. He was better off in the kitchen, especially with any food for Fleur at the moment. Merlin forbid Fleur eat meat oozing with blood in what Fleur deemed 'the French style' while being pregnant. Charlie and Harry were usually busy scrounging up enough cutlery and plates for the entire family and making the table. The cups, silverware, and dishes were understandably mismatched at every brunch, but it was part of what made the whole spectacle every week so endearing to her.

That, and Teddy's tufts of hair going amok in every shade of the rainbow to match all the people who stopped to talk to him sitting on the booster seat next to the kitchen counter.

When the entire family sat down to eat at last, she'd already gotten stomach cramps from laughing at Teddy's attempts to imitate both Harry's and Lavender's hair colors (considering one had black hair and the other was blonde, it was no easy feat), Mr. Weasley's friendly wrinkles, and Ron's freckles. The continuous tide of conversation only made her laugh harder, and forget about the stinging fact that she was the only one there who was single other than Charlie, who was married to his dragons at his heart anyway.

As if she'd read her thoughts, Molly asked her teasingly if she still had no time for romance. She gave a genuine grin and replied in the affirmative as cheerfully as possible, earning a curious glance from Ginny. Ginny immediately piped up and reported to the family that she, in fact, spent her Friday nights reading in the armchair by the fireplace – she had time, just not the right mindset. Ginny still hadn't let go of the Aidan Kiely incident, or the barb about Quidditch players' ability to make small talk. At Ginny's announcement, Fleur and George barraged her with information about this or that man that they knew, who'd love to meet her. She responded to Fleur with yet more laughter, but shot George a glare that clearly expressed her lack of trust in George's matchmaking capabilities.

She remembers hating the way the conversation was suddenly all about her, and she still hates how this questioning reoccurs every couple of months since then.

But what she remembers about that particular brunch is Teddy. When the topic of the table finally left her, Teddy reached out with his tiny baby hand and squeezed her thumb, almost in a reassuring manner. Amused and startled, she turned to the baby and kissed him on his temple, only to have him give her what seemed like a sympathetic look. Was this baby a Seer? To her amazement, his eyes began to rapidly flip through colors, all the while staring into her own. His irises paused at a storm-blue that seemed remarkably like Narcissa Malfoy's, then continued to change as if his eyes hadn't yet decided on a suitable color.

She let out a little gasp when his eyes became grey, the color of soot. Teddy kept his little fingers around her thumb, and experimented with the shade until he hit the right color and her hand tightened around his involuntarily.

Grey, darkening to cobalt around the edges, reflective and bright as mercury or steel.

Teddy withdrew his hand from her grip, and patted her cheek before turning back to his plate as if nothing had happened. She turned her dazed attention back to the large family she considered her own, and wondered what it would be like for him, with those eyes, to be sitting where Teddy sat now. To sit at this haphazard, chaotic but undeniably happy table by her side.

She wondered if his cold eyes could learn to light up like her eyes whenever she was in this happy home.

* * *

><p>He remembers being invited to Holloway's house for an Easter dinner. Thankfully, he didn't embarrass himself about the holiday itself – the previous year, he'd gotten confused about the rabbit sitting on his desk at work, only to find out that his supervisor also handed out chocolate rabbits at this time.<p>

So it was with some trepidation that he clutched a basket full of the delicious little critters and rang the doorbell of the Holloways' residence. Holloway lived in London, but his parents and younger sister lived in Oxford, in a neat house just outside of the bustle of Oxford University. Holloway opened the door, and eyed the basket with an impish grin before muttering that his sister wasn't four years old, for god's sake. He ignored Holloway and straightened his tie, getting more nervous with each quiet step he took in the hallway. He stopped when he heard voices floating out from the sitting room, with the buzz of a telly in the background. Holloway nudged him forward, announcing to his parents that his guest was here.

Instantly, three pairs of eyes turned toward him. For a second, he could hear the thudding of his heart in his ears, his body going extremely still. Almost instantly, a friendly smile lighted the face of Mrs. Holloway as she bustled up to meet him in the hall. Holloway's father and sister followed, the latter giving her brother a meaningful smirk that Holloway returned with a roll of his eyes. Mr. Holloway was a surprisingly fit man, with a bookish sort of look that befitted an Oxford professor, while Mrs. Holloway was pleasantly plump with dark curls framing her face. Erin Holloway was the sort of girl that he probably would've thought attractive in Hogwarts, pretty face, slender form, long hair, and good fashion sense. But all he sees in Erin now is that she's a high school teen, who has the same easy grin as her brother.

The dinner flew by him in a whirl – the conversation flowed like the generous amounts of wine that Mr. Holloway poured for him. His luxury-accustomed taste could tell that the wine wasn't as nearly fine as the bottles that lined the cellar of the Manor, but it wasn't cheap either. Erin had pouted when her mother firmly poured grape juice for her into a cup, causing Everett to roll his eyes again. Mr. Holloway talked about his economics classes at Oxford, Everett talked about football like the Arsenal fanatic that he was, and Mrs. Holloway described her work as a real estate agent for uni students who wanted to move out of the dormitories. He silently reveled in the normalcy of this family, so in contrast with the extravagant but quiet meals back home. He almost felt like an intruder, unfamiliar as he was with such cozy, comfortable settings and the joviality of a daily meal. He wondered if the Weasel's family was like this, with every person inquiring after each other, sharing stories, arguing for no particular reason other than for differing opinions on the better type of pudding. It was the first time he'd envied Ron Weasley for anything.

When had it been since all three members of his small family had even sat down to a meal together?

He stiffened when Mr. Holloway eased into a question about his own family. He bit back a sharp retort, knowing that the man really hadn't meant any harm and that it was unreasonable for him to snap at a most gracious host. He picked up the wine glass with a tight grip, and schooled his voice into a calm tone as he replied that he'd lived in Wiltshire before moving to London. Mrs. Holloway immediately launched into a discussion about how beautiful Wiltshire was in comparison to Oxfordshire in the summer, although the two neighboring counties were both in South England. With a internal sigh, he almost relaxed when Erin asked where he'd gone to school. He couldn't hold back the slightly strangled tone that time – thankfully, no one seemed to notice anything amiss. Unfortunately, that meant no one took the hint either; Everett gave him a surprised glance when he told the Holloways that he'd attended a boarding school in Scotland since he was eleven, and the entire family seemed to light up with curiosity.

But barring the momentarily unpleasant experience of having to lie about Hogwarts, the rest of the evening passed peacefully. He was genuinely surprised when Mrs. Holloway thanked him for taking care of their dear Everett in London (to which Everett groaned), and when Mr. Holloway shook his hand with a firm grip and told him to visit again. He was doubly surprised to feel the smile on his face as he returned the handshake, and had a slightly ominous feeling that his holidays wouldn't be quite so solitary anymore. Well, ominous wasn't the right way to describe it. But he was going to have to come up with a more complete backstory by the time Christmas rolled around again.

As he made his way to the station, feeling the warmth of April seep into him, he was almost tempted to make a quick visit to Wiltshire. It wouldn't be so hard to find the Manor the Muggle way, considering that it was glamoured as a tourist attraction that was barred from the general public. It would be so easy to just slip into his home, surprise his mother…

But as he boarded the train back to London, he realized that he wouldn't want to enter the dark, at times foreboding halls of his ancestral home. Not when he felt such a foreign giddiness and warmth coursing through him from his visit to the Holloways.

He'd never felt so uncertain in his life, except for the time that he'd faced Dumbledore in the tower, petrified with fear. But this uncertainty was a strange one for him. Looking out the window to the countryside sunset, he almost wished he'd been a Muggle or a Muggleborn – perhaps then he would've been born into a normal family. Perhaps he might've met her when they were younger. Perhaps he would know what it felt like, what it took to achieve such simple domestic happiness that Holloways seemed to have.

And perhaps, if he ever had the slightest chance at all, he would've had it all with her by his side.

* * *

><p><strong>I have a present for you all - the next two or three chapters will be the last of the exile chapters! Yay!<strong>


	11. Remember to Return, Part 1

**Thanks to camou-191, PurePotter and Celestine Alexis for their continuous support! Also thanks to kai kuduo, Betty91Boo, FindMe215, Embodied Frustration, Akatsuki'sBloodyNekoNinja, and youlovethischik1 for subscribing to alerts or adding the story to favorites.**

**I know it's been a bit since I updated, but I have to remind you that it's still not as long as a lot of other FF writers! And besides, I needed to figure out exactly how I was going to end this part of the story. It should be done either in one very long chapter or a normal chapter and a shorter chapter. Anyway, it's getting there.**

**J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter. I own _Two Boxes of Memories_.**

* * *

><p>She remembers waiting in her office on June 4th for Narcissa Malfoy. Or rather, suddenly realizing that she was waiting for Mrs. Malfoy. The woman had come to her year after year on the same day, a present in hand and head held high. What she can't remember is when she'd stopped being surprised at Mrs. Malfoy's cool cordiality, or when she'd started to notice that some flaxen strands were becoming white around the temple. She also can't remember when she'd started to expect the cup of tea afterwards – certainly, she'd been almost alarmed when Mrs. Malfoy had asked her after the second year of the Exile Project – or when she'd found the silence that always took over the tearoom… calming. Pleasant, even.<p>

But what she recalls at the moment is the one time that Narcissa Malfoy broke this pattern. Sure as clockwork, the lady of Malfoy Manor should've come into her office at 3 pm on June 4th, sit down on the chair where a cushion would already be prepared for her, with a present in hand for her son. But that year, Mrs. Malfoy did none of those things.

It was a sure knock on the door that distracted her from the impossible task of organizing her filing cabinet. Meticulous as she was, her desk was littered with notes folded into paper planes and charmed to fly, letters after letters from Pansy Parkinson who seemed to gossip even on paper, and owl treats that she couldn't remember the expiration dates of. She was involved in the terrible task of trying to sort all of it when the door opened.

She remembers that she'd stared, dumbfounded, into the face of Narcissa Malfoy and her startling eyes. Mrs. Malfoy stood in the doorway, dressed in a deep blue robe that matched her eyes eerily well. The robes were perfectly fitted to match Mrs. Malfoy's beautiful figure, and she couldn't help admiring the woman once more despite everything. Although, she couldn't even say what 'everything' was anymore.

After all, four years was a long time. Too long, in fact, to hold onto a wavering sense of hate or even guilt. She wasn't sure what she felt toward Narcissa Malfoy, even as she welcomed her in. And suddenly, she had another realization that, in fact, five years had passed since this woman had last shown her a face filled with bitterness in the courtroom.

Five years since he left.

Mrs. Malfoy entered the office with measured steps, sitting down in usual seat with her typical enigmatic expression. Still staring at her, she glanced at the calendar on her desk, wondering if she'd been harried enough to forget the date. No, it was not even June yet. She gave Mrs. Malfoy an apologetic smile regardless, waving a wand in a futile attempt to clean up the absolute mess that was her desk. The older woman patiently waited, without even a hint of irritation on her face. She wondered if Mrs. Malfoy was merely hiding it, or they were actually friendly enough to overlook such things.

Once the wooden surface of her desk was visible again and free from assorted carnage, Mrs. Malfoy held out a parcel without a word. She accepted the wrapped gift, slightly confused as to the occasion. Was a coming-home gift for him? If so, why send it by owl?

She then realized that the wrappings were gold. Not silver and green, but gold. She looked up into the face of Mrs. Malfoy, and was immensely surprised to find the faint glimmer of a smile on the woman's face.

It's for you, said Mrs. Malfoy.

She froze, half in shock and half in puzzlement. She stared down at the gift in her hands, as if trying to look through the wrapping to its contents.

Why… she began.

Mrs. Malfoy quieted her with a barely perceptible shake of her head.

I have never expressed my thanks, said Mrs. Malfoy. It seems this will be my last chance to do so. He's coming back next week, is he not?

She stared at Narcissa Malfoy for what was probably slightly longer than polite. That's right. He is coming back next week. He's going to materialize, she thought. He's going to become a real person again, not the one in my head all the time.

She was going to see him for the first time in five years, next week.

She stopped breathing.

I hope you'll accept it, came Mrs. Malfoy's voice.

At the older woman's voice, the air returned to her lungs and she took greedy gulps of it, shaking herself to recover from her brief mental breakdown. Fighting the panic that seemed to suddenly come to her like a slithering snake, she stuttered out thanks in return.

Mrs. Malfoy seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then drew out a hand and calmly tucked an imaginary wayward strand of hair behind her ear.

An extraneous movement, she realized. It was the first time she'd ever seen Mrs. Malfoy do such a thing. The blonde lowered her gaze to her lap, no longer looking piercingly at her as she used to.

I think I can answer your question now, said Mrs. Malfoy, in a soft voice that nonetheless seemed to fill the room. Do you remember? You asked me why I supported the Dark Lord.

The panic in her heart subsided, and throbbed in the back of her mind. Her attention was riveted to the woman who sat before her, who she realized had changed much in the last four years than she could've ever thought. She had a fleeting thought whether time had done this to her own self, as well.

I supported him because I was afraid and uncertain, continued Mrs. Malfoy after a heavy pause. Just as you were, I suppose.

Afraid of what, Mrs. Malfoy? she heard herself ask.

Afraid that the magical world as I've known it would change. That everything, the only thing I knew, would change with Muggleborns and other newcomers in the world I've always considered my own.

A pair of brown eyes met blue ones, no longer stormy but a smooth liquid sapphire.

Perhaps it doesn't excuse me from much, said Mrs. Malfoy, her voice a mere wisp in the air. But it's the best answer I can give you.

And with that, Narcissa Malfoy had left her with more gifts than the gold-wrapped one in her hands.

* * *

><p>He remembers the crushing feeling of having to tell Everett.<p>

This is precisely why he hadn't wanted to make friends in the five years he'd spent in the Muggle world, he thought. No, that wasn't accurate. In the beginning it was his stupid bigotry that was in the way, then later his self-imposed hermit life. Now that he'd reluctantly acknowledged that Everett Holloway counted as a good friend of his, he was faced with the dilemma of having to tell the man the truth.

Or of course, just vanish from his life.

Blaise hadn't been even remotely helpful. When he'd called a week earlier, a nervous sort of worry taking over his mind like a fog, Blaise had been silent on the other end for a long time.

How do you think I feel? Blaise had asked.

He'd been irritated at the time, but came to the realization that Blaise was actually in a bad situation – college in the Muggle world seemed to be just as much of a social bonding experience as Hogwarts, a more expensive and inappropriate version of the boarding school life that he'd led for six years. Blaise, being who he was, had likely made more friends than he could count even when sober. Blaise had even had a Muggle girlfriend or two – casual, since Blaise could maintain a serious relationship as much as he could do Divination. And considering Blaise had once submitted a Divination paper about Professor Snape dancing to the Weird Sisters in a pink robe…

Everett deserved to know, didn't he? Shouldn't he tell his best friend for the past four years that he was a wizard on exile? But then he'd have to explain why he was in exile in the first place. And he really, really, didn't want Everett to know anything about that.

He never wanted to speak about that to anyone. Ever.

Oh god, what was he going to tell the rest of the Holloways, who'd never questioned why he spent almost every big holiday with them instead of his own parents? Mrs. Holloway, who'd sent him a box of scones on his birthday? Mr. Holloway, who probably knew more about finance than his own father? Even Erin, whose terrible attempts at flirting were actually endearing, in a little sister sort of way?

He'd put off telling Everett until the end. But now he'd already taken his deposit back from his landlord, posted his furniture (which were really quite nice, no matter what Blaise said about his 'pauper life') on the Internet, and began packing his clothes into an oversized trunk. And now today he'd told his supervisor at work that he's going abroad permanently. Which means it was time to tell Everett.

When Everett walked into their customary bar near King's Cross station with a wide grin as usual, he felt a twinge of guilt. Guilt was nothing unfamiliar to him, of course, but this was bad. He hadn't planned well for this at all. Whatever vague excuse he'd planned to give died in his throat when Everett ordered two pints of beer, taking off the light summer cap from his head and running a hand through his hair. He, on the other hand, stared at the tankard that the barkeeper pushed in front of him with a blank look, not hearing the cheery babble that Everett was spewing next to him.

I quit at the office, he blurted out.

Everett stopped his hand, the tankard midway between his mouth and the bar surface.

What? Why?

I… I told them I got a job offer in France.

Everett gawked at him, incredulity plain on his face. Holloway's so easy to read, he thought with an internal roll of his eyes. Suddenly determined, he stood up from the bar stool and stuffed his hands into his pockets, feeling for the keys to his flat.

Come with me, Holloway.

Everett stood up with a dazed expression, the tankard hitting the bar with a thunk. He heard Everett slap on a few pound notes with a word of friendly farewell to the barkeeper, and walked out the door without looking back to see if his friend was following. He had to hurry, before he lost his nerve. He never was one for courageous deeds – but this wasn't going to be solved with Slytherin cunning. He was going to trust Everett Holloway.

It'd been a while since he'd trusted anyone fully; he, selfish as he was, was going to burden Everett with the knowledge that he was a wizard.

God help him.

He headed down the all-too familiar streets, acutely aware of each step that he took on the pavement and noting each minute detail with steady grey eyes. By next week, he wasn't going to be jogging in Holford Gardens after work, or hear the garishly dressed street performer plucking at strings that were out of tune in Percy Circus, or shoot a smoldering look of disgust at the well-to-do teens who smoked in a corner of the street.

Bloody hell. He was going to miss all this, wasn't he?

He turned into Cruikshank Road, almost stomping on the steps up to his flat. He heard the shuffle of worn trainers behind him, the slight groan of the front door, and following footsteps. It was the first time he'd even let Everett into his flat, and he was going to tell him… He shook away the uneasy feeling that knotted in his stomach, ushering Everett through the doorway.

His flat was a mess at the moment, clothing and packing tape and the enormous trunk sitting in the middle of the room. It was this that he headed straight to, digging through layers of clothing until he produced the right rosewood box.

You were serious! Exclaimed Everett in a shocked voice, looking around the disheveled room. You're really leaving, then?

No, he replied. I'm not leaving the country.

But you said you got a job offer in France.

No, I said I told the office that.

Then what?

He opened the rosewood box with an unsteady hand, his eyes resting on the familiar inscription at the top. For the times I want to remember, he silently repeated to himself. He never did understand the forgetting part, but this was a moment he wanted to remember and not regret.

For the times I want to remember. Holidays with the Holloways, Arsenal games, pushing off editing those ridiculous Valentine's Day romance novels on each other.

Because he did want to remember the past five years, all the parts with and without Everett.

He turned around and handed the box to Everett, who stared at the Remembrall with a blank expression.

I hope you've forgotten something, mate. Take it out and hold it in your hand.

Everett carefully took the ball out of its case, handling it with care. His eyes widened in surprise when the red smoke began to billow inside where only air existed before, and he brought the Remembrall closer to his face to examine it, no doubt for any contraptions that might be inside that he couldn't see.

Did you forget anything recently? he asked Everett quietly, his heart thudding in his chest in nervousness.

Everett tore his eyes away from the ball, and frowned.

Maybe. I… Oh! Bugger, I left my hat in the bar. But what does that have to do with this thing?

It's called a Remembrall, Holloway.

Oh. How does it work?

He took a deep breath, willing Everett to look at him in the eyes. His hand was clenched at his side.

Magic, he replied.


	12. Remember to Return, Part 2

**Again, much love to PurePotter and Celestine Alexis for the awesome review. Thanks to ravner, Ch4r, anknsrdnl, and emotionalrangeofateaspoonCW for adding to favorites or alert!**

**As always, J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter. I own _Two Boxes of Memories_.**

* * *

><p>She remembers the crispness of letterhead paper and the artificially neat font, and how amazingly new it still felt despite smoldering away in the back of her cabinet for five years. She honestly loves the smell of old parchment, going faintly yellow at the corners and crumbling with each delicate touch upon its edges. She firmly believes the hand-written word has a life of its own, and so she makes it a point to treat parchment well.<p>

She remembers the corners of her mouth turning upward with the irony while brushing the dust off of old reports from the exiled, dating back to the very first one she'd ever received from Pansy Parkinson. Reading the bubbly handwriting that was Pansy's trademark, she had to smirk, thinking about how Pansy Parkinson of all people began to type her reports later. She almost wondered who the real Muggleborn was.

Perfume, fashion, weather… She knew she'd done well when she suggested Parkinson be placed in Muggle Paris, where she was surrounded by all the things she loved and cared about most. Pug-faced Pansy wasn't the vindictive little swot that she'd thought in Hogwarts – yes, a tad superficial and petty, but much more talented than she'd given credit for. Placed as an assistant to one of the rising stars of the Muggle design industry, Pansy had excitedly written that two of her original pieces were to be included in the fall collection in the latest letter. She'd laughed outright when she saw that pictures of the pieces were included in the letter – and kept waiting for the ridiculously thin models to move inside the picture. Frankly, she'd been away from the Muggle world for far too long. She hadn't even had an occasion to go back, since the War… Ah. A dull pain in her chest flared.

She remembers that she'd included those pictures in the final report to the Wizengamot – and remembers the comical faces of the eminent men and women as they adjusted their glasses or pushed the photos all the way up to their noses. She barely kept back her snickers as the uniformly dressed group tried to make heads or tails of Pansy's designs, and failed miserably. With a flustered humph, the man with eyebrows like Hedwig's feathers put the photo down on the tottering tower of paper that made up the final report.

She was no longer the scared young woman, barely out of school and a traumatizing war, who had stood before the Wizengamot five years ago. She heard herself explain the progress of the exiled in the Muggle world with a calm and wizened voice that estranged her even as she spoke. She spoke of Pansy's burgeoning career in the fashion world, Zabini's successful graduation and senior thesis on the impact of CFLs on the rapid growth of bacteria (ah, she totally lost the Wizengamot there), and Millicent Bulstrode's satisfactory letters regarding her job as a private bodyguard (she didn't know who came up with this idea, but it was bloody brilliant in her opinion). She raised her head from the report with a guardedly triumphant expression, and stated that the Project was much more successful than she'd initially thought.

She didn't know what she'd have done if it wasn't.

The Wizengamot was quiet during her speech, although a few hostile eyebrows bristled at the thought of Pureblood wizards and witches involved in such inane Muggle lifestyles. Of course, she pointedly ignored those individuals. In fact, she remembers staring at Elphias Doge for the majority of the speech, as she always did. She waited for the grudging admissions as well as the rebukes, a warm sense of pride forcing her to actively think about not smiling.

Doge's eyes twinkled in the way that reminded her of Dumbledore – she gave him a quick, grateful grin in response. A woman wearing glasses that made her look rather like a bug spoke up, directing the Wizengamot's attention to Marcus Flint and Miles Bletchley. Inwardly, she frowned – Flint and Bletchley, the thickheaded dolts, she thought. Flint had quit the job that the Ministry acquired for him a long time ago, and had gotten arrested more than once for brawling at bars. Bletchley, for god's sake, had stolen a car using wordlessly performed charms – how he managed it was beyond her, although he did only use the most basic of unlocking spells and had gotten caught literally 30 minutes later. She fought the urge to roll her eyes as the skeptics gleefully latched onto those two idiots.

She cleared her throat, not quite caring about whether they thought it was rude. She explained in the clear, no-nonsense tone she'd always used on Harry and Ron that the Exile Project was never meant to be so successful in the first place. She hadn't guaranteed a 100% reversal in the minds of people who were brought up from birth to be bigoted, nor had she even expected it. The numerous cases of success should at least prove that they were susceptible to change and willing to adapt to new situations. And considering that the Ministry under the very capable Shacklebolt had repealed the biased laws in favor of Purebloods (she didn't mention the political falls of many of the old wizarding families, lest she offend some cousin or another sitting in the rows in front of her), they would have plenty of adapting to do.

Ah, how reasonable and collected she sounded. She reveled in the silence that greeted her words, as the Wizengamot mulled over her statement.

Doge nodded his head in approval, and with finality tapped the masses of paper with his wand to straighten it into a flawlessly neat stack.

We are, he said with a fleeting glance at his colleagues, immensely proud of your achievements, Ms. Granger. You have outdone yourself.

She felt the blush creep up on her cheeks. She'd thankfully gotten out of the rather embarrassing tendency to glow whenever she heard praise, but she couldn't help the surge of pleasure at his words.

Chief Warlock, perhaps that's too early to tell…? protested a mildly disgruntled voice to her left.

Doge ignored the comment, and continued.

They've all served their sentences, even Mr. Flint and Mr. Bletchley. It's a shame they weren't able to manage themselves better, but it's neither your fault nor the Wizengamot's. I believe the exiled will do just fine once they return. I trust you'll personally see them discharged from their sentences?

Of course, she replied, unable to keep the relief out of her voice. She hadn't even realized that she'd been tense.

Dismissed, she strode down the long hallway, feeling rather giddy. She wasn't much for Ron's ideas of parties, but this was a cause for celebration. Five years of unrelenting stress, over!

It was only when she returned to her office that she looked around with a slightly saddened expression. She'd cried buckets in that room, hidden from the views of the nosy colleagues who still seemed to treat her differently no matter how old she was. She'd laughed at Pansy's letters and had somehow found her biggest salvation in Narcissa Malfoy in that office.

She'd read and reread his postcards there.

Brushing her knuckles along the worn surface of her desk, she felt her face slowly break into a grin. For the first time since the idea had hit her a few days ago, this was the first time she hadn't launched into a nervous fit first. No, she felt the anticipation pooling in her stomach this time, dread and pure happiness overtaking her in equal parts.

She remembers opening the box one last time with a shaky breath, fingers dancing over the pages and cards hidden within. She felt herself smile, clutching the letter from four years ago.

With a final, silent farewell, she closed the lid of the box and her eyes. She remembers that the whisper fall from her lips like a quiet prayer.

Draco Malfoy.

* * *

><p>He remembers the swirling feeling in his stomach as he looked around his flat for the last time. Blaise was still packing, muttering curses when the magical trunk he'd first brought to the Muggle world snapped shut on his hand to protest being stuffed with so many things. Ignoring Blaise, he swept through his bedroom, left with only bare walls and an immaculate desk that the landlord had asked to keep. The kitchen was just as empty, plates and utensils packed neatly into boxes to be donated. He rolled his eyes at the toothbrush and remnants of toothpaste still on the sink in the bathroom. He made a mental note never to become flatmates with Blaise Zabini ever again as he wiped down the surface and finally made his way into the living room.<p>

He was momentarily taken aback at the sight. Everett's lanky form was right next to Blaise, both grunting in an effort to close the now-shrieking trunk. Everett finally threw himself on the trunk, giving Blaise the time to quickly zip it up. He was doubtful about whether it would hold – the trunk looked like it was about to burst. Maybe this wouldn't have happened if Blaise had actually folded any of his clothing before putting them in there…

So, said Everett, wiping the sweat off of his brows with a swipe of his hand. Last day, eh?

He eyed Everett, unsure about what to say. Their conversation a few days ago had been a series of disbelief, exasperation, and if he had to be honest, nerve-wracking jolts that had him perspiring. Everett had left stammering apologies and mumbling incoherently, confusion evident in his face and yet unwilling to distrust his first friend in London. And now here he was, wrestling with a screaming traveling trunk with his other best friend. He felt a strange sense of otherworldliness, seeing Blaise and Everett sitting side by side on the couch. The wizarding world and the Muggle world, sitting easily together.

Holloway here's been more helpful to me than you, mate, said Blaise with a chuckle.

He met Blaise's eyes, always more astute than he seemed. Blaise knew, then.

The three men sat in an odd silence, questions hanging in the air and uncertainty coursing through him. He cleared his throat just as Everett got up from the couch, a hand in his hair.

Well, you'll visit though, am I right? said Everett with a brighter grin. You said you're still technically in London.

Blaise sneaked a quick look at Everett, then back to him. His eyes almost imperceptibly narrowed, asking him for an answer. His face was disconcertingly unreadable.

He cleared his throat again.

Yes. Call me for drinks… he trailed off. Well, don't call, I'll uh, owl.

Owl?

Yes, Holloway, the bird, said Blaise with a smirk.

He was taken aback by Blaise's genuine grin, directed both toward him and Everett. Blaise got up as well, and stuck a hand out in Everett's direction.

Well, Holloway, you'll be seeing a lot more of me, then.

Everett shook the offered hand eagerly, looking slightly sheepish at displaying so much enthusiasm.

He watched his two friends shake hands, a fog settling into his head. Wizard, Muggle. Blaise, Everett. Wizard, Muggle.

Stare any longer and I'll think you're getting jealous, said Blaise with the same smirk.

He and Blaise exchanged looks. Everett looked even more baffled, but stepped toward him with his trademark easy grin.

You can tell me everything on your own time, said Everett. You know, over drinks and all that. And uh, you know, show me next time. With a… with a…

Wand, finished Blaise.

Yeah, agreed Everett with a slightly strangled voice. Well, I won't keep you then.

He could tell that Everett was still struggling with the idea as he made his way to the door. He held Everett back with a hand on his shoulder, giving him a reassuring grin back.

Next Friday sound good? The usual bar. It's not Arsenal, but Chelsea's always been worth cheering for.

Everett looked stunned for a second before relief broke out on his face.

Wouldn't miss it. Maybe they'll finally get around to crushing Manchester, eh?

He nodded. Everett stepped into his shoes with a much more comfortable face than before, brightly telling him that of course he'll give the family his regards.

Blaise regarded him with a silent look when he stepped back.

Bugger off, he told Blaise without venom. He dragged the trunks around the flat toward the fireplace, checking his cellphone for the time. 3 minutes left until the Floo opened.

I wasn't going to say anything. You ARE going to take me with you Friday, aren't you?

He gave a half-hearted scowl to Blaise, unable to keep the grin off of his face.

You don't even like football.

'Course I don't. But you know I love London.

Muggle London? he asked, unable to hold back.

Blaise kept steady, helping him with the trunks. 2 minutes.

Yeah, replied Blaise. Muggle London.

The two old friends stared at the fireplace as a fire began spontaneously, crackling in the warm summer heat. The distinctly greenish tint in the flames made his stomach turn, but somehow he felt lighter than before. Blaise stepped forward first, lugging the impossible trunk with a grunt into the flames. Standing in the mix of green and red flames, Blaise and he stared at one another, both feeling a bit surreal that this was finally happening after five long years.

Five years. 1 minute.

See you at home, then, said Blaise with an odd note in his voice that was hard to miss.

Yeah. Visit the Manor, Mother will be glad to see you.

All right, replied Blaise.

He shouted the name of the Zabini's ancestral home, and the fireplace instantly swirled and smoked, vanishing Blaise from his view.

He stared at the fireplace, feeling a little lost. He had a final look around the flat, fingers tightening around the handle of his trunk. Keeping an eye on the green flames of the Floo, he suddenly let go of the handle and reached into a side compartment of the trunk, drawing out a familiar box. He stroked the surface for a moment, waiting for a torrent of emotions to rain down upon him. Nothing came – no panic, no worries, no excitement or nervousness.

Only the intensifying longing that crept upon him like a slow-burning fire.

The fireplace crackled once, drawing him out of his reverie. He finally stepped in over the ledge, heaving the trunk inside next to him. He closed his eyes, feeling the fringe of his hair on his eyelids. He remembers repeating the name over and over again in his mind, tempted to speak out loud.

And so he did. With a flash, the fireplace swallowed him, and the embers dimmed into red before puttering out all together.

Hermione Granger.

* * *

><p><strong>AND IT IS OVER! Ahhhhh I hope people noticed that this is the first time either of them referred to each other's full names. Then again, that should be hard to miss... I am BEYOND ecstatic about the next arc, so to speak. The next chapter is actually going to be Part 3 of Remember to Return, and it will be the moment you've all been waiting for.<strong>

**REVIEW! **


	13. Remember to Return, Part 3

**Thanks to camou-191, PurePotter, dreamingdarling, and bicycletracks for reviewing, adding to alerts or favorites.**

**If you noticed from the tenses, you'll see that they aren't yet together – the "present" that they are speaking from is after the end of the Project. I think their very complex relationship won't just suddenly take off b/c they're back in the same world, so this is why I gave myself a year or so to maneuver their relationship. Also, I think it's much more realistic that way. They deserve more than a sudden one-night stand.**

**As always, all rights to the original Harry Potter series belongs to JK Rowling.**

* * *

><p>Soft footfalls. Soft, but sure and confident, measured. She'd been watching the small clock on her mantelpiece, occasionally telling herself to blink. When the minute hand reached the precise moment she'd been waiting for the past hour, she let out a breath she hadn't even know she'd been holding. As if on cue, she picked up the box she'd sorted for the Department of Records, crisply labeled across the top with the years of the Exile Project and emblazoned with her magical signature.<p>

With a flick of her wand, the lid was sealed onto the box. The edges molded into the sides of the boxes to create a smooth cube, to be tucked away on some forgotten corner of the infinite shelves of the Department of Records, gathering dust and cobwebs upon the memories of each of the exiled. The box would be out of place in the shelves, where vials after vials were stacked, each shimmering with a strand of memory to be seen through a Pensieve.

And yet, she was secretly glad that she would be the only one to ever remember those letters.

And no one would ever have to know that none of the letters with Draco Malfoy's name on them were real.

As she listened to the footfalls, her hands became still on their own. One step. Two. Three. A pause. The sound of rustling fabric, the unmistakable shadow cast across the frosted window of her office door, unclear and yet so, so clear.

Silence.

She watched the shadow of his hand rise from his side, to knock on the door – a soft sound, but sure and confident, measured.

The click of the doorknob, the whine of the hinges.

The alabaster hand she'd held once, five years ago.

* * *

><p>A mask of indifference. That's what he needed. It had saved his life before, hid his expression that mirrored the tortured faces of his victims before the Dark Lord. And this mask saved him then, because by god, she was choking the life out of him.<p>

And she hadn't yet moved a finger.

"Granger," he said, hoping desperately that his face betrayed no emotion.

She looked startled. Was she… blond? But thank god, her eyes are the same, he thought. The same warm chocolate brown. He noticed for the first time that there were small gold flecks in them, as if all her subtle beauty hadn't been enough already and some higher powers that be decided to deal him another decisive stroke.

Should he make a snide joke about how the resident know-it-all of Hogwarts was silent, like he would've all those years ago? Should he comment on the blond hair, the ink stains on her slim fingers, the familiar curls at her collarbone?

"It's been a long time," he said, inwardly flinching at the triteness of the statement.

She visibly collected herself, her hands suddenly going into frenzied motion, clenching and unclenching around her wand before she realized what she was holding and let it go with a dull clatter onto her desk.

"Malfoy," she stammered, coloring slightly. "I didn't expect you until at least tomorrow. Why didn't you go to the Manor?"

He fought the pang of unreasonable disappointment at her words.

"I thought I'd get the paperwork out of the way," he said as tonelessly as possible.

All rehearsed, but any and every word took him an effort to say.

She nearly tripped as she got out from behind her desk, her face deepening into an undeniably alluring pink. He kept himself in place, eyes fastened to her every movement. She fumbled with the latch on the file cabinet, drawing out a sheet of parchment.

Her hand was shaking slightly, he saw. Was she scared? Was she just embarrassed that she was being clumsy?

"Here," she said, placing the parchment in front of him and handing him a quill.

He brushed her hand slightly while taking the quill. Both hands jumped back as if pecked by a Hippogriff, and for a second, the tiniest part of a second, a pair of grey eyes met brown-gold ones before they each turned away again as fast as humanly possible.

He held the quill uncomfortably, unused to the thinness and the tickling feeling of the feather. He signed his name clumsily onto his release form, blotting the ink by mistake. He held out the parchment to her, partially pleased to see that his hand wasn't shaking, but going to pieces inside his mind.

She took it with a still-trembling hand. Her right hand flexed around the edges of the parchment, eyes cast steadfastly on his shoes.

He yearned to reach out and brush an errant strand of hair away from near her lashes.

She blinked. Suddenly, those large eyes were fixed on his face, roaming from one facial feature to another at a breakneck pace. He couldn't breathe, staring back at her, hearing his own pulse. At his searching gaze, she quickly looked back down to the sheet in her hands.

"Er…" she began, clearing her throat. "Welcome home, then. Tell Mrs. Malfoy I said hello."

"My mother?"

She blushed again. God, god, he chanted in his head, still unable to take his eyes off of her face.

"Ah, long story. Ask her."

Will you tell me over tea, if I ask? he wanted to say. Will you tell me what you've done for the past five years?

"All right," he said instead. "I'll… I'll see you then."

He turned to go, finally wrenching his eyes away from her. His feet felt leaden.

His mind screamed: last chance, last chance, last chance!

"Last chance," he exhaled as he laid a hand on the doorknob, letting the words float in the air.

In the dead silence of the office, the words hung like a held breath.

"Hermione," he said.

Dear god. It sounded so, so alive when spoken aloud.

He didn't turn his back to face her when he whispered her name, or when he spoke again.

"I'm sorry."

* * *

><p>She stared at the door, dumbfounded. She heard the door close again and again in her ears, like a haunting echo.<p>

He was taller than she remembered. He was less thin and angular, his Seeker's body still lean but more muscular. His hair was a duskier shade of silver-blond… or was that the lighting of her office? She could see the slight tension in his jaw, no matter how much he tried to hide it, and the abnormally motionless behavior that she'd learned to recognize in his mother as nervousness. His irises were exactly as she'd seen in Teddy's eyes, smoke-like grey with cobalt at the edges. At least, she thought it was during the few seconds she'd looked into them at all.

She wanted to slap herself when she'd accused him of being early. After all, it was natural that he would never want to see her again and get the paperwork done as soon as possible. She felt a sad flutter in her chest at his hurry, but then again who could blame him? And with the way that she'd been clutching her wand (completely unconsciously, of course, and it was only to keep her hand from shaking) when he walked in through the door. Her face whitened. Merlin, he probably thought that she was going to hex him.

And why, why in the world did she even mention his mother? Narcissa Malfoy probably didn't want her son to know their odd and strangely ceremonial relationship. Although, if the goblin-made amber necklace that Mrs. Malfoy had given her last week was any indication, their old enmity was significantly reduced between them.

She realized she was still standing, and nearly collapsed into her chair. She eyed the release form, smiling subconsciously at the blot on his signature. It was a telltale sign that he wasn't used to quills anymore, since she'd had the same problem when she first started Hogwarts.

She wrapped her hands around her head, replaying the entire 5-minute conversation with him in her mind. Was it even five minutes? It felt like an hour, but it couldn't have been more than a few minutes. Every facial expression (not that there were many), every motion of his hands, every word he spoke…

I'm sorry, he'd said.

She should've asked: For what?

She remembers thinking that perhaps the next time she saw him, she could make that an excuse to have tea with him. Maybe ask what he'd been doing for the past five years. Maybe ask why he only sent her postcards.

In fact, she remembers doing just that.

* * *

><p><strong>Ah. That last line jog anyone's memory?<strong>


	14. A Familiar Stranger

**Thanks to Johnnys Miss, BecauseSheCan, DaK0Ta, hopesup-headdown, TheSandgirl and nadiaraney7 for reviewing and adding to alerts or favorites. And much love to PurePotter, as always.**

**As always, all rights to the original Harry Potter series belongs to JK Rowling.**

* * *

><p>He remembers the faces of both of his parents as he stepped out of the fireplace, dusting vaguely green soot off of his nondescript black tee and jeans. Easily lifting the trunk behind him, he looked forward and was startled to find both his mother and father in the room they used exclusively for guests who Flooed into the Manor. Both parents and son froze, staring at one another with their typical masks in place, as if on stage as tragedy actors. A disruptive crack of Apparition didn't faze his father in the least, but made him jump in surprise and broke his mother into a rare smile that lit her face like a beatific halo.<p>

"Master Draco!" a voice squeaked at his knees. "Ah, Tully is so glad to see you! Missus was worried sick, she was."

"Tully, shh," came a soft warning from his mother, the smile still illuminating her face. "Draco. Welcome home."

He stiffly received his mother's embrace, and tentatively patted her back when she held on. He was just as glad to see her, of course, but he was just unused to such embraces from his impeccably mannered mother. He could tell that she was trying to compose herself lest she break into joyful sobs – the smile was already more emotion than she tended to show, even in front of him. At least, not such bright smiles. All the while, his grey eyes were fastened to his father's similar pair of eyes, unreadable as always. His father was usually not the sneering, domineering individual in his own home as he was outside, and yet the man wouldn't have been called warm by anyone.

"Draco," his father began.

He was startled to hear the age in his father's voice, a weariness that overtook every sonorous drawl.

"Father."

"We've expected you for the past 20 minutes. I'd hoped you would be timelier, at least for the sake of your mother."

Some things never did change, did they? he mused.

"I apologize. It wasn't my intention to make you wait."

So he'd spent 20 minutes in the Ministry, then. He could've sworn it was more like an hour.

His mother finally detached herself from him, again visibly gathering herself. She began to search his face, much like Hermione had, probably noticing the slight details that had changed about him that he'd never be able to tell.

"Lucius, he's here now. There's no need to chastise him," said his mother.

His father's eyes narrowed, studying him from head to toe. He could tell his father disapproved of the Muggle jeans and shirt he wore, no matter that he'd intentionally avoided wearing the more outlandish outfits in his trunk. Outlandish by his father's terms, that was.

"Will you have to go to the Ministry tomorrow, then?" said his mother, never taking her eyes off of her long-awaited son's face. "Otherwise, I'd planned a small welcoming party for you and for all the children of our friends who'd been placed in a similar situation."

Avoiding the use of the word 'exiled', were we?

"Surely the party can wait, Narcissa. He'd hardly even had time to… reacquaint himself."

His still-beautiful mother turned toward her husband, away from his view. But he could easily imagine the neutrality in that face, but the slight firmness around her eyes that asserted her will.

He could already feel a headache coming on. He adored his mother, despite their lack of outward affection. He couldn't say the same for his father, but gradually learned to coexist with him if only for the sole fact that he was his father, regardless of what past sins he may have committed. But the Manor was always like this – semantics and subtleties were what mattered here, more than words or expressions or actions. Hermione's flushed face flashed in his mind's eye, and he found himself wishing that his parents were as half as expressive as she.

But this was the fact of his home, and so he had to readjust and reacquaint himself, as his father had so delicately put. The correct word was probably 'return' – return to who he used to be, return to his world, return to the son that used to follow his father blindly.

But the fact was, he'd forgotten how to return to that Draco Malfoy.

* * *

><p>No, that wasn't the exact excuse that she made. She did ask him to tea, she did ask about the cryptic postcards, and she did ask him a vague question about what he did for the past five years and got a vague answer back. But she did have a purpose other than her own irrational desire to study his changed features again.<p>

So it was with his hawthorn wand in hand that she sat at the same teashop that she and Narcissa Malfoy visited once a year, but at a table next to a discreet window in the main room of the shop that filtered in a slant of sunlight to her hair. She'd chosen the spot, well aware that the window showed a view of an alley that was infrequently used, other than by street cats and the occasional drunkard from the Leaky Cauldron nearby. It was iced peach tea today, with a hint of lemon – perhaps perfect, considering her rather jubilant mood and the weather. June was perhaps her favorite month, during which the sun peeked through the most in London's dreary climate.

She was happy about so many things today – Ginny and Harry were finalizing their wedding plans, set to be held in October, just as the leaves would turn to shades of orange and gold at the grounds of the Burrow. The flat she shared with Ginny was piled with scraps of sample fabric for the bridesmaid dresses and table settings, but even after dealing with Ginny's exasperating indecisiveness for an hour that morning, she was happy for her two best friends finding their place at last. Of course, that meant she'd have to find yet another place to live, but that could wait. Maybe a place in Muggle London, nearer to the Ministry booth…

Her thoughts wandering, she didn't notice the timid clangs of the bells at the door. She was gazing out at the alley, staring intently at a fresh green leaf that had sprouted through a crack on the wall of the store opposite the teashop, when he politely cleared his throat next to her.

"Granger," he said, tipping his head forward very slightly.

Was that a smile that was dancing at the corners of his mouth?

She was right – there was no hint of his old arrogance, only a quiet sort of confidence that came with his good breeding rather than any outdated philosophy of superiority. Even if he felt such things still, he was too socially conscious to show it in a world that was no longer accepting of such prejudices. Smart man, he was. She'd never have thought about him all those years if she hadn't known that. He sat in the chair opposite her, discreetly motioning to a server to order tea.

Darjeeling. A smile tugged at her lips, despite the tumultuous flip-flops of her stomach with him sitting before her.

"Having a good day?" he asked, quiet but amiable.

She held back her surprise at his comment, her busy heart speeding up a little more before it resumed an erratic beat that she could still feel at her fingertips. She just wasn't used to sitting with him, or speaking with him without any hostility.

They'd all grown. War tended to do that to a person.

"Ah, yes," she replied evenly, giving him a rather timid smile. "It's beautiful weather."

A faint expression of serenity seemed to pass over his face.

"So it is."

The two simultaneously raised their cups from the saucers and brought them to their lips. Hurriedly, both put the cups down, and she couldn't stop a nervous sound from escaping her mouth.

He cleared his throat again. Her eyes immediately went to his neck, and she suddenly noticed that he was wearing a white Muggle shirt beneath the collar of his robes. Her gaze shot back to the teacup before her, but she was well aware that she was still smiling like a lunatic.

"Shame there's nowhere to go jogging," he commented.

Jogging? Oh, right. That was his alternate method of exercise to flying.

"I don't believe that. The Manor must be beautiful this time of the year."

His long fingers wrapped around the porcelain of the teacup, unfazed from the steam. He seemed to stare at the liquid for a moment before he spoke.

"It is," he said, his voice quiet and neutral. "But I can't run there."

A 'why?' was on the tip of her tongue, but she bit it back. Of course. Lucius Malfoy. He'd hardly be happy that his son had taken to such a blatantly Muggle hobby.

"I used to live near a park," he said, adding a sugar cube from a small jar at the center of the table to his tea. "Holford Gardens. Stunning in June. I always ran there after work."

I know, she wanted to say. I know more about you in the last five years, more than your own parents, but I still know so little.

"I kept waiting for you to send me a postcard from where you lived," she blurted out, going slightly pink and kicking herself for her curiosity. Oh well, the cat was out of the bag.

He seemed taken aback.

"Oh," he said. "I sent you postcards of Scotland, didn't I?"

"Yes."

He blinked a few times.

"I thought you'd like those more. You didn't seem to stay indoors when the weather was good at Hogwarts."

Oh.

When had he noticed?

She merely nodded, unwilling to let her mind run free and imagine all sorts of silly scenarios that she'd only regret later.

She noticed that his eyebrows rose slightly and an expression of realization flitted across his face. Instantly, his pale cheeks took on a duskier shade, not a flush of any sort but a subtle change in shadows. So he realized what he'd said.

They sat in a loaded silence.

Almost with a jolt, she remembered her actual errand (albeit one with a lot of ulterior motives) and drew out his wand from her magically expanded purse. She held it out to him, and was pleased to see that her hand didn't shake.

"This is yours. I'm sorry I didn't remember until earlier."

He stared at the wand in her hand for a moment, before he reached out carefully and grasped the wood. A spark of blue jumped between his hand and the wand, and he visibly flinched as the magic spread back into his hand and body. He thanked her, his eyes trained on his wand and turning it this way and that, studying it like some foreign object instead of an integral part of his self, as a wand was.

She realized then that it wasn't just the war that had changed him. It was those years of exile that made him able to sit here in front of her, talking about the weather with her and bringing memories of Hogwarts back between them. This wasn't the Draco Malfoy from school days, or even the Draco Malfoy of the courtroom she'd secretly harbored in her mind all of these years. This was a new man, a wizard who was unused to wands and quills, a man wearing a tee beneath the impeccable robes of his heritage. A flick of recognition lit in her, and suddenly she thought she could understand his last words back in her office.

In those two words, he'd expressed all the previous wrongs that he'd done to her and to himself, because no other words would've sufficed.

And some cerebral part of her protested at the warm feeling that spread throughout her at this knowledge, and that part disliked where her heart was exactly going toward this almost-stranger in front of her.

Or rather, where her heart already was.

* * *

><p><strong>That was a rather long Hermione chapter. But we'll have some Draco next chapter, adjusting to his life (as he always seems to be in this story).<strong>

**Everybody get the Darjeeling and the postcard reference?**

**It's my (evil) goal to make people reread every chapter before reading a new chapter just to get the references, hehe.**


	15. Invitations

**Again, so much thanks to PurePotter and Owling for the support! And to Skmarie, nikki98 and angelchrys for adding to alert or favorite list.**

**PLEASE REVIEW? PLEASE? The emails I get from FFnet are essentially what reminds me to write the story, you know. That was a not-very subtle threat.**

**As always, all rights to the original Harry Potter series belongs to JK Rowling.**

* * *

><p>He remembers his first spell after the exile: a simple <em>Evanesco<em> to vanish the spilled ink on his desk. He recalls that he'd knocked the well over while trying to get back to the habit of writing with a quill. Cursing, he'd automatically reached into the pocket of his trousers, took out his wand, and muttered the spell.

He stared at the clean wood surface for a moment, more surprised than he liked at his instinctive use of magic. Dear god, he was surprised that he was doing magic. What a wizard he was. At least he hadn't forgotten that much.

Shaking his head, he turned back to the neat stack of heavy cream paper on his desk, and plugged the earphones of his iPod back into his ears. He took hold of the quill again and continued signing the formal dinner invitations that his mother insisted on sending to all of his former friends. Or rather, estranged friends. He'd forgotten to ask Hermione what the rest of them have been doing, although before he went he had every mind to. Upon seeing her face, his mind instantly went blank and they ended up talking about the weather.

The weather. Of all things.

A soft knock on his door gladly distracted him, and he let the quill drop in exasperation. He called out 'Enter', stretching his back against the unimaginably soft leather of the chair in his study.

His mother glided in, not a hair out of place. She gave him a brief smile that he was so much more used to seeing, and he rose from the chair to sit in front of her on the set of couches that took up a part of the room. The room was more modern than the rest of the Manor, although in a place that would still be damp and chill like a medieval castle without magical maintenance, 'more modern' meant little. In fact, it'd been a bit jarring seeing all the antique décor of his ancestral home and the entire wizarding world after living in the heart of modern London for five years. He'd obsessed over the existence of a deep green canopy above his head as he tried to fall asleep for the past several days in a king-sized bed, unused to the splendor he'd once considered his birthright.

"Mother," he said. "Good morning. You're up early."

She nodded in lieu of an answer. She called out Tully's name, and a sharp snap almost immediately followed. A tray of scones and an array of jams floated next to Tully's head when he appeared in the room, complete with a tea set of fine china. The scent of Earl Grey tea gently wafted throughout the room.

When Tully disappeared again, his mother picked up her cup of tea and drew it to her lips before she spoke.

"Draco," she said, her voice even and soothing. "I wondered if you were done with the invitations."

"Ah, not yet. There's more people than I'd thought."

She raised her eyes to his, seemingly hesitating before she went on.

"Have you read the list of names?"

He hadn't. He'd recalled the tedious task of signing invitations in his own hand from years ago, and simply sat down to do it without even a glance at who he was exactly inviting to what was supposedly his own party.

"I thought not," she said, sighing.

"I apologize," he said quickly. "I was… I was trying to get used to writing with a quill again."

She blinked at that statement. He couldn't even tell if she was surprised.

"There may be some unexpected names among the list. It'd be best if you acquainted yourself with them."

"Unexpected?"

She nodded. She put the cup of tea down on the coffee table between the couches, and picked up a raspberry scone. He noticed for the first time that her hands were slightly veined.

"Minister Shacklebolt, for one. I believe we've also invited Mr. Percy Weasley, but I'm not sure he'd come."

He gaped at her for a moment before he recovered. A Weasley in Malfoy Manor?

"And Father agreed to this?"

His mother nodded again, more curtly this time. In fact, it was a sharp snap of her head rather than a nod. Ah, Lucius wasn't happy about it then. Although, it had always been a Malfoy custom to keep in good relations with whatever bureaucracy was in power. His business-savvy father probably agreed to it without much goading, even if the current Ministry was filled with his former enemies. He imagined his father sitting across from Kingsley Shacklebolt at the party – obviously the Minister would have a spot at the host table – discussing wizarding economy and maybe the wine. He fought the urge to smirk at the mental image, because it really wasn't funny. Ironic perhaps, but certainly not funny.

"Any others I should be aware of?" he asked, making a mental note to arrange seating so that his parents sat away from the Minister. He wouldn't mind keeping up small talk with Shacklebolt – in fact, he welcomed it. Shacklebolt wouldn't have gotten the top spot if it hadn't been for his diplomacy skills, after all. He didn't foresee any outward hostility between himself and the Minister. Of course, there was also the fact that the Minister was a personal friend of a certain Ministry worker he'd seen fairly recently…

"How was Ms. Granger?" his mother asked nonchalantly, drawing the teacup to her lips as she spoke.

He jumped in his seat, his heart slowly beating faster in anticipation for what his mother would say, and because his mother seemed to have essentially read his mind. Was her name among the invitations? Surely he would've noticed. Surely.

She looked up when he didn't answer, peering into his eyes. He panicked, and rapidly thought through everything he'd said to his mother in the past few days in an effort to remember if he'd slipped at any point.

"I thought of inviting her. To me, it seemed logical," she said softly. "We have… numerous things to thank her for."

He silently agreed with his mother, but raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question.

"Several of our acquaintances don't feel the same, it seems," she answered, a small sigh escaping from her mouth. "Perhaps I should've invited her regardless. She certainly would've held her own despite whatever they may think of her."

His mouth went dry. Yes, she would be gracious and polite despite her company, but he wouldn't be able to keep away from her for even a moment with all those vulture-like purebloods waiting to tear her apart. It wasn't that she needed protection, but it would've killed him to be the one to place her amongst such people. She deserved so much better, no matter how much he wanted to see her again. He shuddered, thinking of Daphne Greengrass' mother or Greg's father. They weren't above subtly abusing her for an entire night, regardless of the occasion.

"Ah, perhaps that's a bad idea, Mother," he said in reply.

She raised an eyebrow.

"I take it your meeting with her didn't go well?"

"No, no. It was fine. She was fine," he muttered in a hurry, and then cursed himself for the last comment. "Er, she also told me to tell you hello."

Was that a faint smile that was gracing his mother's lips? He could still recall the day when his mother and he had walked into Madame Malkin's to find the Golden Trio there… and how she'd called Hermione scum. It seemed as though he would have to thank the Dark Lord for starting an utterly devastating war, ironically enough. He almost scoffed out loud.

"I sent your birthday gift to you through Ms. Granger every year, although I'm sure you already knew," she said, putting her cup and saucer down on the table. "She's… a pleasant girl. We had tea together on those days before your birthday."

He chuckled. He didn't have to ask to know who began that tradition – it had Hermione's generous hand all over it. She would never cease to surprise him.

"Mother, you don't have to convince me. I'm not opposed to inviting her. She'll be uncomfortable in this company, that's all."

His mother wordlessly and carefully studied him. Blast, she'd been a Slytherin with the observational skills of a hawk. She called Tully back into the room, who promptly vanished with the half-empty tray and used cups of tea. Mercifully, she rose from the sofa to leave his study, an uncharacteristically conspiratorial twinkle in her eyes.

"Then it's your job as host to make your guests feel comfortable," she said with a hand on the doorknob. "I'm sure you'll… do more than adequately, Draco."

He groaned aloud when the door closed, burying his head in his hands. Why was his mother so bloody omniscient?

* * *

><p>She remembers running into Luna at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, just as she'd been hurrying to the department head's office to get a few forms signed for the release of an unfairly detained werewolf who'd had the unfortunate accident of denting a Muggle car rather badly during a full moon. She'd been rather angry that the Department of Magical Law Enforcement couldn't handle it without paperwork from the "Beast" Division. Bureaucracy, she muttered under her breath, her rapid steps ringing in the hallway. Only the Ministry would classify werewolves under "beasts", ONLY during full moon, and as Beings at any other time. She'd argued about the classification with the head of the Being division for a good 30 minutes before he finally kicked her out, saying that he hadn't been the one to make that rule.<p>

In retrospect, she really shouldn't have bothered. She was already suffering from disillusionment after barely a month at her new position in the Ministry, acutely aware that her passion for law and fair judgment had been hiding since the end of the Exile Project. It was bizarre how she actually missed it – or did she miss the postcards?

It was with these thoughts that she slammed into a petite figure coming out of the Beast division. She caught a flash of yellow hair, and was pleasantly surprised to find Luna's dazed eyes looking back at her.

"Hermione," exclaimed Luna, her voice serene as usual. "How nice to see you."

She gave Luna a bright smile in return, knowing that the odd woman really was glad to see her, despite the quiet greeting. She was Luna, after all.

"Luna! How's Rolf?" she asked, giving the former Ravenclaw a hug and enquiring after her longtime boyfriend and fellow naturalist, Rolf Scamander.

"He's generally well. He's been saying he's dizzy, so I told him it's probably from a Wrackspurt and it'll go away soon."

"Or it might be just a cold, you know," she replied genially. "Do you have time for lunch? I just have to get these signed and I can go out with you."

The pub Luna chose was lit with lamps in the shape of frogs - even in the middle of the day - with seats that looked like they were made of sanded tree stumps. She raised her eyebrow at the names on the menu and ordered something with the word 'kidney' and 'pie' in it, although she honestly couldn't promise that it wasn't something else entirely. Luna looked right at home, with her earrings that looked like acorns with a bite taken out of them.  
>"I heard something strange the other day," Luna said abruptly while they waited for their dishes to arrive.<p>

Oh bugger. The abruptness of the statement was nothing new for Luna, but the fact that she heard something strange was. If she thought something was 'strange'…

"Evanna at the Tea and Kettle swore you and Draco Malfoy were drinking tea together."

She almost spurted water out into Luna's face. Thankfully, she only choked and wheezed as water got into her lungs. Luna calmly held out a napkin with the picture of a newt on it, waiting for her friend to stop coughing.

"It's true, then. Evanna also works part time at the Quibbler, you know. She gossips a lot. You wouldn't believe what goes on at teashops."

She made a mental note to avoid the teashop at the particular time when she met Draco.

"I hope things go well for you, Hermione. I think he's all right for you."

She almost coughed up water again, since she'd been sipping from it to calm herself. He'd called her friend Loony more than once during Hogwarts, spiteful and mean as he was back then. She was aware that he'd changed quite a lot, but not many people did – the Weasleys still laughed occasionally about the ferret incident when she had brunch with them. Then again, Luna always was spectacularly intuitive. But to say such a thing with such a straight, sincere voice…

"I, er, that is, there's nothing to go well, Luna. Go well for us, I mean," she blustered, reddening. "Besides, I thought you said he was... mean."

"Oh. But that was a while ago, wasn't it? I thought you two would get on well together after being in contact for five years for the Exile Project. He seems like your type, if he ever says he's sorry, and gives up those pureblood notions."

Merlin. Luna should've taught Divination instead of Trelawney. And give the world a lesson on forgiveness, really. How did she forget about all those days of being trapped in the Malfoy dungeons?

"He did, actually. Say sorry," she said quietly, almost whispering it.

Luna cocked her head to the side, as if confused, though her face was the same as always.

"Then what's the problem?"

"There is no problem. I only met with him to give back his wand. I was charge of it while he was gone."

Luna sipped from her own glass of water matter-of-factly.

"No, I meant the problem with seeing him romantically."

She stilled. Luna was right. What was the problem? He certainly wasn't his younger self anymore. Perhaps she'd held a subconscious grudge against him all these years, despite fancying him for the better part of them. A barrier of sorts in her mind, holding his past actions against him, even as she understood his reasons and accepted his apology. She knew without a doubt that regardless of whatever she felt for him, she would've kept her distance from him.

She was just as prejudiced as she had accused him of being in Hogwarts – maybe with more justification, but unwarranted nonetheless.

"I think you deserve to be happy, Hermione," said Luna with her dreamy voice. "Don't you think so?"

She did deserve to be happy. Just as much as anybody else.

So when Ginny held out the heavy cream-colored card with her name on it with a familiar script, she tore it open without hesitation.

It was an invitation. One that she accepted, to become happy just as much as anybody else.


	16. Of Peacocks and Pansies

**Thanks to Biology12345, enlighten-d, Jencen Edenburn, temptation94 and TwilightCrazyAssBitch for adding to alert or favoriting! And as always to PurePotter and bicycletracks for the review.**

**Yay, party scene! I'm so sorry that it took so long to update – in my defense, Real Life was a SEVERE bitch this week. In return, I'll have two updates this week!**

**All rights to the original Harry Potter series belong to JK Rowling.**

* * *

><p>He breathed in. Out. In. He stared at the matter-of-fact check next to the RSVP line, the elegant signature at the bottom of the card. He turned it over in his hand, checking for anything faulty, anything wrong at all, and breathed out again when he saw none. His mother had left it on his desk deliberately, he was sure. How very Slytherin of her – the party was to begin in two hours, a leisurely garden affair during one of the final beautiful days of the waning summer. He wondered if his father knew, but then brushed away the thought. It didn't matter whether he knew or not – she'd said yes.<p>

And that was all that mattered.

His mind was spinning with the implications. Would he have to stay next to her all night, as he'd feared before? Would she be all right amongst all the Slytherins, even if Kingsley Shacklebolt was there? Would she feel better if he convinced that Percy Weasley to come? Should he invite that bugger, Potter, if only to make her feel at ease?

Why did she say yes? What did it mean for him? He silenced his thumping heart, telling himself that it was probably out of her odd friendship with his mother, if it could even be called such.

Oh god. A sudden thought hit him, and he tripped ungracefully over an armchair on his mad dash to find his mother. On a second thought, he turned on his heels and ran down the hallway to the drawing room on the ground floor of the Manor, barreling into a house elf in his hurry and mumbling an apology.

It was just as bleak as it had been that day. Even covered with a priceless tapestry of the Battle of Hastings that had been moved down from a sitting room upstairs, the brightly lit windows, and the emerald green upholstery of the furniture that complemented the passing season, it was bleak. He tried to avoid this room as much as possible, almost as much as he avoided the cellars. Despite all the redecoration and the added lighting, he could still hear her screams. If he closed his eyes, he could see the brutal scar his maniac of an aunt had left on her otherwise flawless skin, each jagged, bloody edge of the writing burned into his brain as it was.

"Draco," came a dry voice from the doorway. "I would prefer not to be notified by a house elf if you are in a state of insanity. Why in the world are you running through the Manor like a child?"

"Father," he began, ignoring the comment and never looking at who he was speaking to. "I need to lock this room. If only for today."

Lucius Malfoy was silent, but he could hear the rustling sound of fabric as his father moved closer. The elder man laid a hand on his son's shoulder. The son tensed, and never saw the flash of disappointment on his father's face at the automatic reaction.

"If it's because of your memories of this room…" said Lucius, with a sigh.

He was surprised by the sound of defeat in his father's voice. . Technically, they were because of his memories too, but he almost felt like telling him it was more for the girl he'd despised during his youth upon his father's terrible, bigoted lessons. He held his tongue, his forearm tingling where the Mark would be had it still existed. He turned to face his father, feeling braver than he normally did. Maybe it was because it was for her.

"Yes," he rasped out. "It is. So if you'll give me permission..."

Lucius let go of his son's shoulder. He nodded his assent, and left the room with even steps. The tension between the two men was palpable, even after the two months he'd spent in the Manor after he returned to the wizarding world. Lucius kept his distance, somehow understanding that parts of his son would never come back from the exile. He wasn't sure he should thank his father or take it in stride, to be honest. Most conversations they had revolved around the investments that the Malfoys had, the wizarding economy, or dealing with the goblins. As he firmly closed the doors and cast wards around the room so that the guests would find no compulsion to come to the room unless they particularly wished it, he thought of the silence of the Manor.

Three people lived in it, but most of the time it felt as only two truly interacted. The Manor was three floors tall, isolated from the rest of the world with gardens that spanned several acres, complete with a maze of hedges and a small peacock colony that occupied one side of the enormous building. The unsaid words between his father and himself, even between his mother and himself, whispered through the solid halls of the Manor.

Today, that would not be the case. Today, his ancestral home would fulfill its purpose – its gardens would be filled with people, both pleasant and distasteful, a constant stream of chatter chasing away the memories and the ghosts of the past.

If nothing else, she would light it with her presence; rechristen it with all the righteousness that was her own, save it from its own dark history.

Tucking his wand into his sleeve, he stared at the closed oak door once more before he turned away from it to stride down the hall.

* * *

><p>She was nervous. Ginny, in her typical way, had given her the most skeptical raised-eyebrow look possible once she told the redhead what party she was attending.<p>

"And you say you had a CHOICE in the matter?" were her exact words. "So then why in the world did you accept it?"

Because I wanted to see him, she thought in her mind. In reality, she'd given her a lie about her need to attend, seeing as it would be a welcoming back party for all the people that only she'd had the privilege to interact with for the past five years. Ginny had given a snort.

"And you think they'll actually appreciate your being there?"

"Well, I did get an invitation, didn't I?"

"Probably out of propriety."

Frankly, it probably was out of propriety. But there she was in front of her fireplace, smoothing down the fabric of the royal blue dress robes that she's specifically bought for the occasion. Ginny, of course, had helped her pick it out once she was done being skeptical. Her flatmate did get too excited for a party of any sort. But thank Merlin for Ginny, considering her impeccable taste in dresses and fashion. Ginny and Pansy would be the best of friends, she thought. If they'd give each other a chance.

The robes were form-fitting until the waist, and in all purpose just a dress. The only difference was that it was long, sweeping down her legs to just above the floor. The flowing fabric slid against her legs as she stepped forward carefully into the fireplace in her high silver sandals, waiting for the green flames to come alive, signaling that she had permission to enter the heavily warded Malfoy Manor. She glanced uncertainly at her redheaded friend for a final approval, and smiled weakly when she received a thumbs-up in return.

The Floo roared, and the uncomfortable feeling of being sucked in began to tug at her feet. She cleared her throat, and yelled out 'Malfoy Manor!' with a confidence she didn't feel, yet.

A snap of fingers sounded the moment she stumbled into the fireplace, instantly ridding her of the soot and ash that inevitably followed traveling through the Floo network. She unsteadily took a step forward, laying a hand against the mantle of the fireplace and raising her head to see a house-elf smiling up at her. The small creature extended its arm, helping her gain her balance.

"Invitation, please," said the elf in a polite voice.

She smiled back at the elf, drawing the cream-colored invite out of her purse and handing it to her greeter. The card glowed green for a second, and the elf vanished it the next moment, apparently satisfied. He – because from its voice, it seemed to be a male – extended a hand again and led her to the hallway, lit with the brightest light that candles could muster.

"Down the hallway, miss. The glass doors to the garden."

"Thank you," she said to the house-elf, who sheepishly grinned again as if unused to the courtesy.

Then again, he probably wasn't used to it.

She made her way down the hallway, her stomach sinking with every step that sunk into the plush carpet underneath her feet in an ornate pattern. She saw the double doors of clear glass at the end of the hall, the light of the sun nearly blinding as it slanted into the stone. Taking a deep breath, she opened the doors and prepared her best polite smile.

A wind chime tinkled above her head as she opened the doors, even thought there was none visible. Instantly, the people standing outside turned toward the door, every set of eyes upon her as she entered the garden. A lone peacock waddled its way between pairs of legs swathed in expensive fabric.

"Miss Granger," said a voice to her side.

She drew in a sharp breath as the host of the party came closer, his brilliantly blond hair glinting in the sunlight. He seemed to hesitate for a fraction of a second before he regained his confidence and stood a foot away, extending his hand. She stared at it, lost for a moment as she tried to gather her wits about her. He looked dazzling in the dark grey robes he wore over dark pants and light grey shirt, matching his eyes in the sun. It suddenly hit her that he wanted her hand, so she timidly laid her small hand in his to shake hands in greeting.

"Thank you for your invite. It was… it was unexpected," she stammered. "But gladly received, nonetheless."

She shut her mouth, lest she embarrass herself further. She was acutely aware of the numerous pairs of eyes around her, watching her every move to criticize or pick apart. Suddenly, she quaked inside – uncertain, unsure, and just a little bit afraid. She'd never done too well in large crowds, unless you counted the battles of the war.

"No, thank you for accepting it," said Draco Malfoy in a quiet voice, as if he wanted to keep their conversation private regardless of the eyes of his guests. "We – that is, Mother and I – weren't sure you would come."

She heard the strain in his voice despite the polite and light tone. She was suddenly aware that her hand was still in his, and withdrew it quickly, staring at the trimmed grass below as she tried to hide her blush. She missed the slightly pained look he gave at the loss of her hand.

"Yes, well," she began lamely. The flutter of conversation began again somewhere around her, calming her somewhat. "I suppose I have a right to be here, sort of."

She again missed the glint in his eyes, distracted by a figure in dark green practically running toward her. The person bumped into a few indignant older individuals, but ignored their sneers and veered to where she stood with Draco.

"Hermione! Draco!" shouted Pansy Parkinson, engulfing her in a hug.

She was stunned by Pansy's flamboyant friendliness, and from Draco's disbelieving face, so was he. She awkwardly patted Pansy on her back, at a loss for words and glancing at Draco to make sure she wasn't dreaming.

"I've been waiting forever for you to get here. Narcissa told me you were coming, and I just had to see you," babbled Pansy, drawing back from the one-sided embrace to scan the dazed woman from head to toe. "Well, you've certainly changed in the last five years, haven't you?"

Draco thankfully coughed, momentarily getting Pansy's attention.

"Are you drunk?" he asked emphatically, sounding concerned. "Have you been to the cellar for Firewhiskey?"

Pansy gave a laugh, turning back to the still confused Muggleborn in front of her.

"Draco, of course not!" replied Pansy. "Don't tell me that you weren't DYING to know who exactly we've been writing to for the past five years! I mean, I knew it was Hermione Granger, but really. It didn't feel like you, at least not after a while. I should apologize for all the things I said in the beginning, shouldn't I? Oh, and I MUST show you that dress I sent you a picture of…"

"Pansy," Draco broke in again, apparently slightly annoyed. "Give her some space."

She finally roused herself out of her surprise, and studied the black-haired woman before her. As befitting her status as a rising fashion designer in the Muggle world, Pansy was dressed in a draped organza dress in dark green, long but with a hint of a tasteful slit that showed a glimpse of her legs when she walked. A trail of small olive-colored flowers went from her shoulder to waist in a swirling pattern, matching the small detailing on the white heels she wore.

"Pansy," she said at last, giving Draco a grateful glance before turning to the woman who apparently considered her a much better friend than they actually were. "It's good to see you in person, as well. And don't worry, those early letters are all in the past."

Pansy gave her a bright smile. She remembered very well how Pansy's letters went from scathing and caustic to a sort of grudging respect for getting her out of a sentence at Azkaban, and then to an excited correspondence filled with details of her apparently very enjoyable Muggle life and the successes of her designs. She wondered vaguely if many of the exiles felt the same toward her – as their sole connection to the wizarding world, had she inadvertently gained an inkling of camaraderie with the Slytherins that she had so despised in Hogwarts?

* * *

><p><strong>Part Two of the party coming up! And does the fact that Pansy likes her so much seem a bit sudden to people? Please review and tell me if it feels to abrupt, although I will have an explanation for it in the next chapter.<strong>


	17. A Slow Turnaround

**Thanks to jayel-amethyst and nikki98 for reviewing! That was quick. And to KacyLee, LadyDayna, sightsounds, lightofthemoon94, veryvi24 and Mon Petite Princesse for favoriting or alerting.**

**And I feel that I should make one small clarification – the reports that Hermione put together for the Wizengamot during the Exile Project were never full accounts of every letter that she received. For one, it would be far too long (and can you imagine some centenarians reading letters after letter from people in their 20s) and Hermione, as we all know, would never divulge information like that.**

**All rights to the Harry Potter series belongs to JK Rowling.**

* * *

><p>"Pansy doesn't waste any time, does she?" said Blaise with a chuckle, glancing at the two women seated at the side of the garden. "Then again, I can imagine her excitement."<p>

He had no need to glance at Pansy or Hermione; he'd been staring at them the whole time, and he'd seen every confused but pleased expression on Hermione's face at Pansy's familiarity.

"Can you? I can't. Pansy hated her last time they saw each other."

Blaise shook his head.

"So did I. But there's nothing like that now."

He tore his eyes away from Hermione's smiling face with an effort, to stare at his best friend. He understood, to a degree, what Pansy had meant when she'd said she wanted to see "who exactly we've been writing to" – he felt the pull himself, the aching desire to ask about his Mother or any news from the wizarding world, the small pangs of excitement at sharing each of his new experiences in the Muggle world. Of course, most of those emotions had been siphoned off into the private letters he kept in his rosewood box, but yes, he could imagine what small comfort Hermione had provided to every one of the exiled.

She never responded, of course, to anyone's letter. But he knew from years and years of suppressing his fears and weaknesses in the imposing household of the Malfoys what even a mute confidante could do. Never judging, never assuming, and from the waiver he'd (unwillingly) signed after his sentence, Hermione was the only one to read the full contents of the letters. So to some degree, it was even private – Slytherin and untrusting as they all were, they also knew that the goody-two-shoes Granger would die before she gave away any potential information for blackmail. And to know that such a neutral individual – neutral only in the sense that she would never express her disgust and anger at the letters to anyone, if she felt any – was at the other end of the line, so to speak, disarmed the most suspicious of them.

Other than himself, that was. And the reservation in his letters was… for a completely different reason.

And Pansy never did have many girlfriends, even in Hogwarts. She was every bit his counterpart, just as snobby and self-important. And while in boys it was a sign of confidence, apparently for girls it ended up alienating most if not all girls. So he supposed he could understand why Pansy considered Hermione a friend. Or at least wanted to consider her a friend. At that moment, a hesitant Daphne Greengrass approached Pansy and Hermione, a careful smile on her face. Daphne and Pansy assessed each other for a moment, and it seemed a silent accord was reached as Daphne took a spot next to Hermione on the bench.

Hermione, bless her saintly soul, took it all in stride and bestowed a gracious smile upon the girl she'd never spoken to in real life because Daphne had never deigned to talk to a Gryffindor Mudblood back in school.

"Granger does look different, after all these years," came a light-humored voice from behind him. "And for the better."

He inwardly scowled. He knew the moment she stepped through those doors that she would change every male mind about whatever misconceptions he held during her Hogwarts years – she looked bloody edible in her robes, modest as they were. From the corner of his eyes, he could tell that his mother instantly approved of Hermione's dress, along with the entire male population in the garden.

Perhaps even the peacock thought likewise, since it went up to her and playfully pecked her hand.

"Theo, keep your eyes to yourself, mate. What happened to you and Daphne?" said Blaise, humor twinkling in his eyes.

"Old story, that," said Theo Nott, waving his hand dismissively. "We're friends, but five years does a number on crushes."

"As do pretty Muggle girls, eh?" said Blaise back, wiggling his eyebrows.

Theo laughed outright. He felt a vague sense of contentment, watching two of his oldest friends banter once again, free from the shadows that made them speak in whispers for years. Although Blaise managed to stay neutral during the war, Theo hadn't been so fortunate – his father was killed during a battle, and the entire Nott estate was thrust upon Theo's young hands. From what he'd heard, though, Theo had been doing well for himself since he came back from the Muggle world, straightening out the debts on his family and rebuilding the dilapidated Nott mansion.

"Same for you, then?" he asked Theo, his eyes back on the two Slytherin girls and Hermione.

Theo shrugged.

"If you mean Granger… well. I can't say I didn't have my moments of lashing out at her in letters," said Theo evenly. "I let go of it soon enough. Pity your mother can't do the same, Zabini."

Feeling ever protective of Hermione, he whipped his head around to stare at Mrs. Zabini. There was a faintly disdainful look on her face, mirroring the other women who stood around her in a small circle. The circle of women was clearly discussing Hermione, as several pairs of eyes narrowed while glancing at the beautiful woman sitting amongst their daughters. Only his mother had a passive expression on her face – she'd been avoiding talking to Hermione directly to prevent any sort of uncomfortable burden on her, lest Hermione feel obligated to associate herself with the Lady of the Manor and her judgmental friends.

"Or Flint. Did you hear? The stupid git," said Blaise.

Theo nodded.

At that moment, a hulking figure appeared in his line of sight, right behind Hermione. He instantly felt adrenaline shoot through him, and hastily but discreetly pulled out his wand.

"Excuse me, Theo, Blaise. I'll be right back."

He walked quickly toward her, but not so much to attract attention. It was a moot point, considering that most of the people in the garden were discussing her, but nonetheless. She looked up as he approached, and he saw something akin to panic flit across her face. He resolutely went to her, ignoring the pang in his chest for her safety. It was only when he was immediately before her that he realized who the figure behind her was.

"Goyle," he said in a surprised voice, studying his old friend.

"Malfoy," said Gregory Goyle, his voice sounding a bit weary.

At Greg's words, Hermione turned around. She admirably reined in her fear and faced the much larger man, standing up from the bench. Pansy and Daphne looked on from their seats.

"Goyle," she said softly. "Good to see you."

It amazed him how she could say those words so sincerely to every single person she'd met at the party thus far, no matter how malicious the person had been to her in the past. Maybe she was just a good actress, but that didn't mesh so well with the quick flashes of panicked emotion she displayed when around him. He supposed he had no one to blame but himself. He really was his own worst enemy.

Greg looked from his face to Hermione's, face expressionless. He suddenly thrust out a hand to shake to her, visibly surprising her. She took it, and Greg seemed to handle her small hand with a care that he'd never really seen in Greg.

"Granger," Greg began. "I wanted to thank you. For all you've done."

At Greg's words, both Pansy and Daphne started, and so did he. Greg had said the words that all of them had been meaning to say but hadn't had the courage to actually do so. Hermione also seemed startled, but a slow smile overtook her face and lit it into a beatific expression that he felt almost privileged to see on her face.

"No," she responded, almost shy. "Thank you… for not letting me down."

At those words, she seemed relieved, as if she'd put down a large burden that had been weighing her down for years. He realized that she'd been afraid in those five long years – that they'd all fail her, that they'd come back the hateful and prejudiced people they all had been. But he knew, as it had been with him, that it was impossible to not rethink everything they'd ever been taught to believe in the face of Muggles that were just as intelligent and resourceful as wizards were.

He cleared his throat and called for Tully, the main house elf of the Manor. Greg, Pansy, Daphne, and Hermione all turned to him just as the elf popped in with a tray of champagne flutes. He made the conscious decision to pick a flute up and hold it out specifically to Hermione, who seemed surprised yet again but accepted it.

Her deep chocolate eyes met his when she took the flute from his hand, and this time she gave him a small smile. His heart beat noisily, forgetting the way she drew her hand back from his before and forgetting the panic on her face when he went toward her. For a moment, he had a smile from her for him and for him only, much as her comforting hand had been for him only in the courtroom all those years ago.

From the corner of his eyes, he was suddenly aware of his father and the grimace set on his face. Grinning inside like a little child, he gave her a shadow of a smirk back, not the self-satisfied one he'd once been known for, but one of contentment and appreciation.

Throwing his caution and what little regard remained for his father to the wind, he toasted her, raising his own champagne flute.

Ah, how his father would disapprove of his next words.

* * *

><p>"To the Gryffindor who managed to save us all from Azkaban," said Draco, that elusive smile on his face. "Cheers."<p>

Pansy, Daphne, and Goyle all looked incredulously at Draco, who seemed pleased with himself for some reason. She blushed at the unexpected toast, and sipped the champagne when three different people approached her and the small gaggle around her. She reined in her discomfort with the increasing attention, and focused back on Draco.

She liked him. Forget about the infatuation, she liked him as a person. She was aware he was looking at her, and felt the blush creep up her neck. Dear Merlin, she had to stop doing that.

"Hermione?" said a deep voice from her left. "What are you doing here?"

She looked up to see Kingsley Shacklebolt with a slight frown on his face. He quickly glanced at the Slytherins around her, and she realized that he was probably misunderstanding the situation.

"I… I was invited," she said a little defensively.

Kingsley scanned the small crowd again, and to her infinite relief, fixed his face into a neutral smile.

"I forgot, you were in charge of the Project," said Kingsley.

Almost all of the Slytherins winced at the term – it did make them sound like lab rats, after all. She gave a warning look to Kingsley, who seemed to grasp the situation a second later than she did. Clearing his throat, he nodded to the younger generation around him, giving her what seemed to be a reassuring smile.

I don't need reassurance, she thought. As much as she appreciated Kingsley's protectiveness, she hadn't felt threatened since she arrived at the Manor. At least, not by the people currently around her. Even Blaise Zabini and Theo Nott, who had come to her only moments ago, didn't seem in the least bit resentful. Ignoring the blatantly displeased looks of the older generation around her, she felt at ease. She'd given Gregory Goyle a grateful expression before, and hoped that all the rest of the Slytherins would understand.

Eventually, the attendees sat in another part of the garden for tea. Names were set on tables covered with pristine white cloth, with beautiful centerpieces of antique tea sets. Scones, muffins, and slices of baked bread were laid out on silver trays that were arranged like a spiral staircase. Delicate jam holders and teaspoons, the tastefully placed flowers, and the simple beauty of the Malfoy gardens came together to present a breathtaking scene.

Draco laid a gentle hand on her elbow, and guided her to a table where her name was inscribed upon a placeholder. As he sat across from her, he was the picture of a well-mannered gentleman, and she felt another wry smile bubble up as sudden images of him from their first year flashed in her head. How different this all was… never in her life had she ever thought that she would be sitting in the Malfoy gardens, at a table with Draco Malfoy, at a party mostly for purebloods. When Kingsley came to sit next to her, she understood how considerate Draco and Narcissa had been for her.

Looking around, she gave Narcissa a shy smile, to which the lady responded with a simple nod. And it was then she noticed how small the party actually was. In a garden fit to house a thousand people, there were only twenty or so people, most of them former exiles. There were barely any men – known Death Eaters were rotting in Azkaban as she sat there, with the exception of Lucius Malfoy. Even he was under a full house arrest until his death, and that lenient sentence was only given after Draco spent a significant portion of his fortune to rebuilding the broken magical world and all sorts of lobbying. And the fact that none of the Malfoys actually partook in the Battle of Hogwarts, as well as the knowledge that Narcissa and Draco had saved Harry Potter at one dire point in the long war. The haughty pureblooded women who hadn't had participatory roles in the war were the ones mostly present from the generation above her. And of course, the few people that the Malfoys had deemed influential.

The garden felt… empty.

She brushed the thought away as conversation began at her table. Blaise, Kingsley, and a woman she vaguely recognized from her Wizengamot hearings launched into a debate about the apothecary contracts at St. Mungo's (Blaise was very outspoken about the importance of potions research), while Professor Slughorn nodded along but spoke mostly about Hogwarts with her and Draco. She lost track of time, trying to keep up a lively conversation without getting too distracted by Draco, and delighted with the news she heard about Neville, Hagrid, or Professor McGonagall.

When she headed into the fireplace at the end to go back home, she could honestly tell Draco that she had a wonderful time. She'd felt his lingering stares all day long, and the faint smiles whenever she spoke. It was enough to make her heart skip an extra beat every few seconds. When Draco wordlessly held out his hand again, this time in farewell, she placed her hand in his without any hesitation.

It was he who paused when he held her hand. In a sudden flurry of motion, he held her hand to his lips and placed a light kiss upon her knuckles. Before she even had time to react, he'd let go.

It kept her up until late that night, as did his parting words when the Floo roared into life.

"You looked beautiful today, Granger."

* * *

><p><strong>Eh, I have to say I liked the last chapter more, as a writer. But this chapter was necessary to show the (slow) progression of their changing perceptions about each other. And I have to warn you, the next few chapters are going to involve parties, only bc if you recall, Harry and Ginny are getting married soon. Just saying.**


	18. When Two Friends Meet

**Thanks to anoosh, WickLobo, magic-never-dies, Pearlescent7, vermillionelliana, bownbey, Lilypad720 and jw021for adding _Two Boxes of Memories_ to their favorite list or alert list! Thanks to acrogirl5 and Divess for reviewing, as well. Divess, you especially! Thank you so much.**

**All rights to the original Harry Potter series belongs to JK Rowling.**

* * *

><p>He remembers waking up from a nightmare in cold sweat, muffling a scream that tore itself out of his throat. He remembers hearing the eeriness of Malfoy Manor, with its whispers and heavy silence, waiting for a rustle or a pop of a house elf in case anyone heard.<p>

No sound came, and it made him feel even more alone than he already had.

He peeled off the satin of his bedsheet off of his sweaty body, and headed to the balcony of his connected study. Breathing in the chill night air of September, he closed his eyes and tried to rid himself of the dream. It was the moment of his branding that was the feature of his twisted mind that night – the wand tip that the Dark Lord held to his forearm was so real, so concrete, that he could still feel its wood on his flesh. He opened his eyes again, the image of a dark fog blooming underneath his skin to form a skull and the sick feeling of a snake slithering out from its mouth flooding his brain.

And of course, the pained cries that sounded so foreign to his ears. The cries he only realized were his when the branding was over and his throat burned.

And yet, the dream was almost welcome. After having spent the night before in his customary bar with Everett, Blaise and Theo (who insisted on tagging along, since he was a fan of Manchester City) in an almost blissfully normal way, he needed the nightmare.

It was a reminder that he had once taken the Mark; a reminder that he was by no means a good person; a reminder that his past existed and always would, whether one of his best friends was a Muggle or not.

A reminder that he would never be good enough for her.

And frankly, this dream was unimaginably mild in comparison to the nightmares in which he has to hear her scream, with the dark cackles of his deranged aunt in the background.

He ran a hand through his sleep-ruffled hair, thinking of her again like he so often did. He couldn't deny that he'd looked for her everywhere when he last went to the Ministry to discuss a further donation from the Malfoy vaults. With his father locked into his own home as he was, he found himself busy with all the outside investment meetings with the goblins or at the Ministry. He secretly longed for the days when he sat in peace at his kitchen table in Muggle London with a manuscript to edit, lost in the recesses of a story. He still threw his heart and soul into his current work, as ill-matched with him as it was. In some ways, he supposed that he relished the opportunity to reverse his family reputation. He knew full well that money could get him and the Malfoy name places, but that grammatical editing could not.

With a sigh, he mentally ran through a list of meetings he had in the following week, when he was suddenly reminded of the fact that it would be her birthday in a few days. He'd found out coincidentally from Pansy, who had been frenzied with a design for Hermione since the beginning of the month. He'd adamantly refused to listen to her prattle on about fabrics and colors, although he was both startled and interested in the fact that Pansy had never quit her Muggle job. She'd been Apparating between magical Paris and her home in Britain, happily taking a taxi from the border of the magical world to her workplace.

"My mother disapproves of it, of course," Pansy had said with pins in her mouth, her hands flying about the fake bust. "But I figured I've gone through enough grief for listening to her."

He was envious. A little bitter, too, but also happy for Pansy, who had never been able to really stand up for herself. But he was envious of her for other reasons – that she could give Hermione a gift for her birthday, that she could Floo Hermione whenever she wanted to, or that she had lunch with Hermione at least once a week since the garden party. He already felt that he'd pushed his luck by kissing her hand or telling her that compliment at the end. He had almost asked Pansy to find out what she thought of him, but he has too much dignity for that. And Pansy had too little discretion.

It hadn't mattered in the end whether he told her or not, considering that Pansy was still a woman and so much more astute than any of his other friends.

"You like her," Pansy had said in an almost accusing tone, even as she continued to work on the dress. "You stupid fool, I've seen you stare at her that day. How long?"

He'd quickly wiped his face of any emotions, adopting a bored smirk and a neutral tone of voice.

"I think every male was staring at her that day."

Pansy scoffed.

"Yes, and that's exactly why you kept digging your wand out every time someone went close to her. I thought you were going to hex the Minister. So how long?"

"How long what?"

"Don't play word games with me, Draco Malfoy. I'm not Blaise or Theo. I don't do the whole male ignorance thing."

"Sometimes I wish you would," he'd muttered under his breath, to which Pansy smiled widely in triumphant glee.

"Listen, I could bring you with me next time I have lunch with Hermione. She's bringing the Weasel girl, so I could just say I wanted to bring someone, too."

"No."

Damn, that was a little too quick. Sighing, he dropped the pretense and scowled. On the bust, a dark scarlet fabric was being wound into an intricate pattern of sunbursts under Pansy's hands. He watched, mesmerized at the display of magic without magic. He looked up at Pansy's face when her hands stopped, and met a frown.

"Draco, Hermione's changed. And so have you. Why don't you… I don't know, just give her a chance?"

He watched the sun begin to peek through at the horizon, the morning dew beginning to abate and the moisture leaving his fingers as they lay on the banister of the balcony. He never actually told Pansy anything when he left, but perhaps the expression on his face had been enough. Perhaps she'd seen the inadequacy and shame he felt in the slight slump of his shoulders.

Walking out of the balcony to start the day, he unconsciously wrapped his fingers around his left forearm, digging crescent-shaped marks into his pale skin.

* * *

><p>"I don't see why I have to go to lunch with pug-faced Pansy Parkinson," growled Ginny.<p>

She gave the redhead a pleading look, at which Ginny's nose turned up even more.

"She's not like that, Ginny. It's been more than five years since the war ended, and you know that Pansy never took the Mark or anything like that. You know it."

"Yes, and I also know that she gave you the dirtiest looks in the world during school."

Sighing, she ran a hand through her curls. She glimpsed at the clock, dismayed to find that it was 10 minutes before the time she would meet Pansy at the Three Broomsticks. Ginny was still in a nightie.

"That's even more than five years ago."

"Still."

Finally, the exasperation turned into a slow-burning anger. After all her work to make sure that the exiles came back as new people, Ginny, one of her best friends, was the one not willing to even give them a chance. She bit back the caustic comment that threatened to burst out, and sighed again.

"Don't you think that I should be the one to be the most hesitant? _I_ was the one who was tormented the most during school, the one their parents fought to eradicate from the magical world. Don't you think that I know what I'm talking about when I say they've all changed?"

Ginny scowled. That damnable stubborn streak in Weasleys, she thought to herself. She couldn't hold back the anger much longer.

The silence stretched between the tense roommates.

"You're asking me to go to lunch with the daughter of someone who might've killed Fred," said Ginny, a dangerous undercurrent running through her voice.

That was it.

"Ginevra Molly Weasley," she said, her voice rising and shaking with anger. "You're not the person I thought you were if you seriously think that _Pansy Parkinson_ deserves your scorn for something she had absolutely no control over. How could you ever look yourself in the mirror and say that you fought for the Light, to eradicate prejudice, when you're doing the same thing?"

"Don't you _dare_, Hermione Granger. Don't you dare tell me I'm like them."

"_They're better than you!_" she shrieked. "They probably know more about Muggle culture than you ever will, Ginny. They have more Muggle friends than you, they had Muggle jobs, and they came back knowing they were wrong about everything they thought about Muggles. And every single one of them went through hell to get to where they are, and they _all_ admit their mistakes."

Ginny was silent, glowering. She was vaguely aware of the tears that had fallen on her face, but she didn't even wipe them away as she stepped toward the redhead, her voice a bit calmer but no less indignant.

"It's the job of the next generation to build on the mistakes of their parents, Ginny. This is how human progress works. This is how we move on and make sure war never happens again. You know this. For God's sake, Ginny, you _know _this. Don't make all the work I did for the past five years go to naught."

Because it was true – she'd honestly thought that when they came back, the world would accept them and all would be right. And if Ginny was the first person that she'd had to convince that the exiled were different, she'd be less upset. But she was just so tired, so bloody tired, of having to explain to the people who had been on _her_ side. She was just never ready for the prejudices from the people she'd thought were on the _right_ side.

But she'd seen the remorse etched onto Pansy's face, _his_ face, in every careful word he'd ever said to her since his return. How he always gave her space to walk away from him if need be. And after having seen all that, she couldn't hold the same hatred anymore. She just couldn't.

Ginny stood there, still stoic. She was aware that she was already late to her lunch date with Pansy, but Pansy would understand. She always did.

"Please get dressed, Ginny," she whispered. "Please."

Ginny looked at her squarely in the eye. Something Ginny saw in the brown of her eyes seemed to soften her glare, and the younger girl reached out with a hand to wipe the drying tears on her cheeks. With a barely audible sigh, Ginny turned to go to her bedroom. The door closed with a click.

She held back the urge to cry – Pansy would never accept her weak explanations for why she'd cried, and any blotches or blemishes in her makeup was a dead giveaway to Pansy that something was wrong. So she let out a shaky, emotional breath and went to the bathroom to redo her makeup, digging out a potion from behind the mirror that would ease the redness of her eyes. When she first moved into the flat, she'd still had those moments of crushing worry that she felt at the very beginning of the Project – and the potion had been her last link to control. She'd always been the strong Hermione Granger to the world, and so she'd done her best to seem like it. Whether it was reading the furious letters from the exiles, or realizing the impossibly high wall that stood between her and her idealism.

When the two roommates Flooed into the Three Broomsticks, finding Pansy seated by a window with a wide smile and an excited wave, her eyes were free from any traces of crying. She gave Pansy a hug, gave Ginny a reassuring but wavering smile, and took her seat. She laughed, she joked, and she did her best to bridge her two awkward friends.

When Ginny gave Pansy an invitation to the wedding a week before it was to be held, she felt a small sense of triumph, a sense of righteousness and a sense of her world being righted on its axis. Even when Ginny muttered that it was a birthday gift to her, so to speak, she gave the redhead a crushing hug and cheery laughter.

Ginny cracked a smile, too.

* * *

><p><strong>A small preview: this section of the story (the second part, if you see the story in three sections - the exile, the time in between, being together) will be over in two or three chapters.<strong>

**And I know nikki98 said that Draco should be the one to reach out since Hermione made the initiative, but I hope this chapter explained why he CAN'T. A little less interaction in this chapter between our two favorite characters, but I think this was important in the overall plot development.**


	19. To Moving On and Holding On, Part 1

**Thanks to cklls, rarring, redhead414, penmage007, kittamalfoy, airtrafficstreams, SicklySweetSweat, Sisma, TotallyEclipsed77, cakecimut and 30percentalpaca for adding Two Boxes of Memories to their favorite list or alert list! Thanks to Divess, WickLobo, nikki98, cakecimut, and camou-191 for reviewing, as well.**

**I know I took a while to update, but I'm going to end this section of the story this chapter! Actually, it'll be two chapters, but they're meant to go together and so I'll update them at the same time.**

**All rights to Harry Potter belong to JK Rowling.**

* * *

><p>He didn't know if it was desperation or just a simple desire to see her again. He was dimly aware that he was putting himself in a lion's den (that was quite literal, in fact), and that the former Gryffindors were not likely to treat him as well as the exiled Slytherins had embraced Hermione. And yet, when Pansy asked him to be her date to the infamous Potter-Weasley wedding, he couldn't refuse. Not that Pansy actually asked, of course. It was more like a declaration.<p>

With Pansy at his side giving him what was probably meant to be a reassuring look but more like a grimace, he at least felt an inkling of solidarity. But he knew if Pansy seemed visibly uncomfortable, Hermione would stick by her side loyally and try to integrate Pansy into the throng of guests. He only hoped the courtesy would apply to him, as well. Frankly he cared little to none about what the other guests thought of him or his presence at the wedding – their sneers, glares, maybe even a jostle at the shoulder or two, didn't matter to him. But if he knew anything about Hermione – and he was acutely aware that he knew close to nothing about her other than his idiotic thoughts from Hogwarts – it was that she would care.

It was almost like the gods themselves were smiling down upon the happy couple. The day was like that of spun gold, the soft sunlight mingling with the coppers and browns of the leaves crunching beneath his shoes. The Portkey point was rather far from the actual field at which the outdoor wedding was to be held, guiding guests to walk through a beautiful path flanked by thick trees of weather-beaten bark. He supposed it was for security and privacy purposes as well, considering that Pansy's invitation itself had been a Portkey set to activate an hour to 30 minutes before the wedding. Apparition points, no matter how well hidden, would've attracted Daily Prophet reporters like a swarm of bees to a field of summer flowers. With the Portkey, only the invited guest and one other person could attend. The pathway ensured that any unwelcome visitors could be seen from the end of the path, where an Auror no doubt waited.

Five years after the war, and life was moving on. Sort of.

Just as he'd thought, an Auror was standing sentry at the entranceway into the field. Pansy gripped the elbow of his jacket as they stepped forward into the wand range of the Auror, glancing nervously around the path. He tried hard to keep the scowl off of his face when the Auror instantly recognized him and trained a wand straight at his head. Pansy gave a little yelp at his side as soon as she saw the wand point, quickly digging through her purse for the invitation with trembling fingers. He patted her hand on his arm, never keeping the wand or the contorted face of the Auror out of his sight.

"Get out of here. I don't know how you got here, but get out," snarled the Auror.

He merely lifted an eyebrow in response, not even deigning to waste a word on the man in front of him. He saw Pansy try to hand the Auror the invitation, only to have it slapped away.

"Out, Malfoy."

"I believe the lady just tried to give you her invitation."

The Auror gave a harsh chuckle of disbelief. Pansy's face was white, even through her makeup. He clenched and unclenched his hand, itching to grab for his own wand, but keeping a cool mask as he learned to do so excellently under the Dark Lord's tutelage.

"It was a Portkey. If I wasn't authorized to come here, it wouldn't have activated."

The Auror's eyes narrowed. Great, he thought with an internal roll of his eyes. Of course the dolt wouldn't listen to logical arguments.

Just as he was about to inform the Auror that he would sue the man for police brutality (was that even a concept in the magical world? Seriously, the things that the Ministry could learn from Muggle law…), Pansy gasped in surprise, then in relief. He briefly looked away from the man in front of him to see another wand trained in the direction of the Auror, steady and sure. He followed the rigid line of the wand to see Hermione Granger in all her righteous wrath.

"Knox, they're both guests. Take the invite and let them in," said Hermione, her voice strained with barely concealed anger.

He was struck by how familiar this looked, how she was still the spitting image of the goddess of justice that he'd known all those years ago. It took anger to bring the old her out, the fighter who never bent under his malicious words and only grew stronger. Between seeing her again for the first time, having tea with her, and seeing her smiling at Greg in the garden of his house, he'd only seen the more matured Hermione: no longer bossy, no longer so eager to prove herself, no longer so easily hurt. At least, not on the outside. He decided that he liked the warrior inside of her, now that her wand wasn't pointed at him and he could see with greater mental and moral clarity.

Her justice was never for one side, and he felt those elusive tendrils of hope drift alive in his chest.

* * *

><p>She had every mind to hex the Auror, damn the Ministry. She didn't care if she was set for a promotion in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (the job was mind-numbing and frustrating anyway), and she didn't care that Knox was part of Harry's team.<p>

"Hermione, they're obviously trespassing…" began Knox, apparently taken aback by her anger.

As he rightfully should, she thought. She disarmed him with a flick of her wrist, her wrath channeling her magic efficiently as it had on the battlefield. Knox stared at his wandless hand, gaping at her for the wordless spell and outraged at her defense of Draco and Pansy. She narrowed her eyes in return, shooting him a glare that would've frozen hell in its coldness, and turned to face the former Slytherins. Her stance softened, and she gave an apologetic smile first to Pansy then to Draco.

His silver eyes were studying her when their eyes met. Was that a twinkle in his eyes? She saw the tension in his shoulders lessen at her smile, the corner of his mouth quirked up in amusement. She marveled at his ability to see humor in the situation, but her smile widened in return. She motioned with her head to the field.

"You're about to be late. Fashionably late as usual, Pansy?" she said, her eyes still on Draco.

"Of course!" Pansy replied merrily, her fear wiped from her face. "Where's Weasley? I should at least thank her for the invite."

She laughed at Pansy's excuse.

"You just want to see the dress, admit it," she replied. "There's a pavilion off to the side. Pass the chairs and you'll see another pathway to your left."

Pansy nodded. Her black eyes quickly darted to Draco, then back to her, winking slyly. Pansy was off to see Ginny before she could even make a sound in protest, and she could only walk up to Knox to hand him back his wand. Knox scowled at her, snatching the wand back from her with a grunt. Suddenly, Draco was at her side, casting a wary eye at the Auror and poised to step through the magical barrier that protected the field.

"Coming, Granger? Wouldn't want to be late to your best friends' wedding, would you?" he said mildly, his face a blank expression, devoid of any animosity toward the hostile man glaring holes into the back of his skull.

She nodded. Just as she stepped back into the field, she whipped around and faced Knox again.

"And don't call me by my first name, Knox. You don't even know me."

When she turned back, Draco's face was lit with a familiar smirk, his hands in his pockets.

She realized he was waiting for her.

* * *

><p>It was his turn to feel like an outsider, in the beautiful autumn field already filled with people of the Order of the Phoenix, Gryffindor house, and Ministry officials. And they were all, no doubt, staring at the unwelcome son of a former Death Eater who just walked in with the most celebrated heroine of the century. Hermione was evidently aware of the attention as well at his side, and her face fell momentarily before she turned to him with an even larger smile than she'd previously shown him.<p>

"Here, I'll show you your seat," said Hermione. "It's… well. It's a big crowd, and…"

He stopped her, not having expected anything otherwise. So the seat was far back. He didn't mind at all – he'd rather be inconspicuously in the back than in the front. Although, it felt strange to stare into the backs of the Weasleys far in the front, their unique hair color visible even from a distance.

"Thank you," he said, once they reached two seats at the fringe of the bride's section.

She seemed a bit taken aback at his words. He almost laughed at her expression, but he knew full well that she'd never really had the occasion to hear those words from him. He didn't remember having said them, even when Potter, Weasel, and she saved his life back in the Room of Requirement.

"Ah," she began, gathering herself. "I'll sit here with you until Pansy gets back, maybe?"

"Nonsense, Granger. You're the Maid of Honour. Go help Weasley. I'll be fine."

Hermione eyed the people around them, looking uncertain. He impulsively reached out with a hand and gave her a little nudge toward the pathway Pansy had vanished into, looking as confident as he could muster. She stared at his face, perhaps a little too long, and flushed before she mumbled something about seeing him later and went to the bride.

Sitting down in the chair, he ignored the disapproving eyes of the old witch to his left and the whispers that were no doubt about his presence at the wedding. Pretending to fix the cuff of his robes, he felt the wood of his wand in his sleeve. Plastering on a bored expression, he leaned back in the chair with an ease he didn't really feel.

* * *

><p>Lined up next to Ron, she held the bouquet with nervous fingers. Despite having been a bridesmaid before, this wedding was undoubtedly special to her. Also, she was the only bridesmaid – every Weasley brother agreed that there were simply too many of them to all be Harry's groomsmen, and there were too many Weasley women to all be Ginny's bridesmaids. Naturally, the job of the Best Man and Maid of Honour had fallen to her and Ron in the end. Sensing her nervousness, Ron reached out with a steady hand and gave her own hand a squeeze. She looked up to his silly grin in his bright face, flashing him a smile of her own.<p>

"Feels weird, doesn't it?" he said under his breath as they waited for the cue to walk in. "My little sister and my best mate. I still remember she hid behind Mum the first day he came to the Burrow."

She laughed outright, forgetting her nervousness.

"But we all knew this was coming since, oh, 6th year."

"True. And frankly, I wouldn't have trusted anyone else with Ginny."

"Funny, Ginny said the exact same thing about Lavender."

Ron wiggled his eyebrows.

"Did she, now?"

"Said no one except Lavender would love you so much and still be in their right mind."

Ron put on a mock scowl, making her laugh again. In the end, she thought, nothing between them had changed. Ron still made her laugh more than anyone else she knew, even as they fought over his eating habits and her bookishness. The brief crush that they had had for each other, all the fighting while searching for the horcruxes, and even the war had all been a sideshow in the larger scheme of things – Ron was Ron, she was Hermione, and their best friend about to get married was Harry. And all was right in the world.

"Well, now that we're on the topic, am I ever going to be able to threaten some bloke about you?"

She groaned.

"Ron, Molly talks enough about that at the brunches."

"But Harry and I never really brought it up, you know. We're both married, and our pretty best friend doesn't even have a bloke to bring to her now-empty flat."

"It's not empty yet," she muttered.

"It will be in a day," he countered.

"Ron," she warned, exasperation clear in her voice.

"All right, all right. But there are a lot of men out there, you know? Unless you're into women. That's all right too, really."

She smacked Ron on this arm with her bouquet, just as the cue came. She glared at him, but she couldn't help but grin when he tripped on the way down the aisle.

Like she said, nothing had changed.


	20. To Moving On and Holding On, Part 2

Pansy sighed in satisfaction, straining her neck to look at the altar from their place in the back. She didn't seem to mind where they were either, other than for the fact that it made the actual ceremony rather hard to see.

"I haven't seen a real wedding in so long," whispered Pansy, sighing. "When are any of our friends going to get married?"

He scoffed.

"We're five years behind everyone else."

Pansy pouted.

"Well, Astoria's dating a Muggle, apparently. Her mother actually collapsed when she heard. They might get married soon."

He kept his eyes on the Weaselette making her way down the aisle on Arthur Weasley's arm, smiling as though she would burst. He glanced at Hermione standing at the altar next to where the bride would be, beaming and simultaneously looking like she'll cry. He processed what Pansy had said in his brain, failed, and tried again.

"Astoria Greengrass?" he managed.

"Do you know another Astoria?" scoffed Pansy.

Ginny Weasley was now at the altar, facing Potter. His eyes went back to Hermione.

"Oh."

Pansy sighed again.

"I never liked either of the Greengrasses, but I'm jealous," she said under her breath. "So I told Hermione that I'd snag a man today, no matter what."

"I'd think it'll be hard in this crowd."

Pansy glared at him.

"Never underestimate a woman on a mission, Draco Malfoy. Especially when she's dressed as well as I am."

"Uh huh."

"Besides, I'm sure you don't actually want me at your side, do you?"

He tore his eyes away from the front and looked at his longtime friend, silent.

"Just ask her for a dance. Can't hurt, right?"

"Pansy, watch the ceremony."

* * *

><p>She watched Harry twirl his new wife under the fading light of the sunset. Ginny's hair caught the light, giving her a sort of an orange halo. Harry laughed at something she said, his green eyes twinkling with mirth and joy. Ron nudged her, holding out a hand to her with a lopsided grin. He wiggled his eyebrows at Lavender, seated at his side. Lavender giggled, and urged her up.<p>

"The best man and maid of honor have to dance after the main couple, you know," said Ron as he laid his hand at her waist. "We have to look great. Lavender danced with some bloke who was the best man at Parvati's wedding before she danced with me, so I have to rub this in her face."

She laughed at his childish jealousy. Before long, other couples were on the floor, and the sun had faded. Candles at the tables and floating lights came on, which were charmed to look like fairy lights (Ginny had wanted real fairy lights, to her infinite dismay), casting the field with a romantic glow that had the guests exclaiming in delight. Laughing at something Ron had said, she suddenly felt a light tap at her shoulder and turned to find Harry grinning at his two best friends.

"Harry! Congratulations!" she yelled, jumping forward to envelop him in a crushing hug.

From behind her, Ron engulfed both of them into a bear hug of his own, squeezing her in between Harry and him.

"Congrats, mate. May you have a long and prosperous life," said Ron in a mock solemn voice.

The three laughed together, reveling in the _rightness_ of it all, truly feeling the light at the end of the long tunnel that they'd traveled through together. She couldn't help the tears that were probably staining her makeup and soaking Harry's formal robes, but the giddiness was threatening to overwhelm her. In fact, it probably already was.

"Aw, come on, Mione. Don't cry," said Harry, wiping her tears when she drew back from Ron and his embrace. "It's a good day. Although, I guess we'll cry for you when you get married."

"Oh, Merlin. You and Ron, really," she said, half laughing, half crying. "Hang on, I'm going to go clean up. I look like a mess."

Harry and Ron exchanged grins, and shrugged.

* * *

><p>After dancing with Pansy ('Come on, Draco, we have to dance!' 'Why?' 'Because my dress looks fantastic when I move, and there are all these men here!'), he sat at the table at the edge of the field, scanning the dancing couples. In a corner, he could see Pansy cozying up to a poor Ministry worker who looked bewildered to be talked to by a woman. Pansy, with her typical finesse, had managed to get a handshake and <em>not<em> have the man grimace at her name. Or maybe the man was stupid. She always did like the slow blokes, as long as he looked half decent.

Sighing, he picked up the flute of champagne that had been charmed to refill whenever he tapped it with his wand. He was on his third flute when he saw her at her table, daubing furiously at her reddened eyes and trying to fix her makeup surreptitiously. He watched her as she seemingly gave up on the eyeliner, drawing out her wand and pointing it at her face. He idly wondered where Weasel and Potter were, but then realized that both were probably on the dance floor with their respective wives while their best friend was crying for some unknown reason. To his slightly addled brain (not inebriated, but pleasantly buzzed), a ridiculous sense of resentment at her friends arose. Chivalry, he told himself as he got up from the table.

Chivalry.

* * *

><p>She saw him coming toward her table. She'd just managed to fix her makeup with a charm that Ginny had taught her at Neville's wedding ('I swear, if you cry at my wedding and look like a panda, I will hex you, Hermione Granger'). It didn't look as good as it did before, since she was generally terrible at beauty charms for some reason or another. She panicked when he came straight to her table, and fiddled with the wand in her hand. But remembering the first time she saw him at her office, she managed to tuck the wand away into the small purse at her table.<p>

"Malfoy," she said, composing her voice. "I'm sorry. I completely forgot to go see you and Pansy after the ceremony."

He shook his head, his blond locks falling forward on his face when he carelessly rubbed a hand into his hair. She heard her heart pound at the gesture.

"No, no… Granger," he said a bit suddenly.

Was he… tipsy?

"Do you want to dance?" he asked, his voice calm.

She stared at his extended hand. Her heart was roaring at this point, and she looked back to his face and the gorgeously tousled blond hair. He looked back at her with clear grey eyes that shone like polished stone, lit in the glow of the candle of her table. One more second, she thought. Give me one more second so my voice starts working again.

Let me breathe for just a second.

* * *

><p>"Yes," she whispered, so quietly that he almost didn't hear.<p>

At least, he hoped it was what she actually said and not his wishful thinking.

He must've heard correctly, since she laid a hand in his and rose from her seat. He thought he saw a blush on her cheeks, the chocolate pools of her eyes highlighted with the gold of the fairy lights as they made their way to the middle of the field, where people were dancing. Her eyes were still a little red, but the eyeliner and mascara that had adorned her eyes earlier were gone and he found that he liked that more. Simple and natural.

Purely Hermione Granger.

At the fringe of the dancing crowd, he stopped. He registered that her hand was still in his, but didn't let go of it as he looked back to her face. She seemed to be puzzled as to why he stopped.

"Granger," he said, his voice as nonchalant as possible. "Are you sure?"

She looked back at him, obviously startled at the question. Realization dawned on her when she glanced at the couples nearest to them and the twin expressions of curiosity and revile written on their faces. Toward him. Toward him holding her hand.

He knew she'd say yes, because that's who Hermione Granger was. But to her, it would also be a way to prove a point, a political statement.

He was selfish, but that's not why he'd asked her to dance.

She turned her head toward him again, her eyes steady.

"Are you?" she asked.

* * *

><p>"No," he replied, his eyes still beautifully clear. "I'm not, actually."<p>

She heard her heart thud in her chest, still racing but a knot forming in her stomach at the answer. She would. She would dance with him in the middle of the dancing people, here, for him and for herself. She would take this as a trial… of sorts…

It was then that she realized why he'd stopped and asked her that question, even though he was the one to ask for a dance. When she'd replied with a question of her own, she'd thought that he was giving her room to back out, as he'd done at his garden party. Giving her space. But no, he was actually asking because he knew exactly how she was thinking. Because he knew she would take this as a 'trial of sorts'.

And his solid, endlessly grey eyes, cobalt at the edge, told her that's not why he asked.

Or maybe she was overthinking it. Maybe he just didn't want the attention, and that was perfectly understandable, too. She hoped he didn't see the blush on her face.

"Granger," he said softly. "Do you trust me?"

He was full of surprises today, she thought as she stood, still mesmerized by his eyes. She tensed a little, and he instantly relaxed his grip on her hand. She keenly felt the loss of warmth the moment he let go. She noted in the back of her mind that the music was changing from the jazzy blues into a soft croon. If not for the change in music, she never would've heard his next whispered words.

"Do you trust the man I've become, Granger?"

* * *

><p>"Yes," she breathed out, her eyes still locked on his.<p>

He felt as though his mind had shut down. His chest beating erratically, he carefully slipped her pliant hand back into his and apparated to the edge of the field itself, to a hill he'd seen earlier. It overlooked the entire meadow and the wedding area, which looked like it was flooded with dots of light from the hill.

They stood in darkness and silence, the music drifting over them like the autumn breeze. It was faint this far away, but still recognizable. He closed his eyes for a second, feeling her cool fingertips against his palm and the warmth from her body next to his. When he opened them, where they stood was lit with a few floating balls of light that he'd seen back at the wedding. Marveling at them, he looked at her with a question in his eyes.

"I came up with the charm for Harry and Ginny. I couldn't let Ginny get actual fairy lights," she said bashfully.

A side of his mouth quirked up. It was so typical of her.

He quieted the nervous heartbeat in his chest, and slowly closed his hand more firmly around hers. To his relief, she wrapped her own small fingers around his, letting him lift her hand. He laid his hand at her waist equally as carefully, feeling a jolt of unusual happiness when she moved closer on her own accord.

Maybe he was a bit drunk after all. Or maybe he found his Gryffindor courage.

Or if this was really just a dream, like he thought it was, then it was fate's way of giving him a taste of all the things he could've had, only to snatch it away at the very last second. Atonement. It would be atonement.

If it was atonement, then he thanked the fates for giving him at least this moment in time, with this woman in his arms, at this place and at this hour, to cherish forever even as he burned in hell.

* * *

><p><strong>Yes, it ended on a slightly darker note. But Draco is Draco, and one dance isn't going to change that. <strong>

**So, that's it! Now, moving onto the the next section of their lives... REVIEW! PLEASE!**


	21. To Moving On and Holding On, Part 3

**Thanks to dancindiva9567, Don'tForgetILoveYou, Sagendorf24, kromoon23, and Numellote for adding to favorite stories or alerts! Infinite thanks to cakecimut, Divess, WickLobo, and bleh (finally got around to reading it, buddy?) for reviewing.**

**Following WickLobo's suggestion that they talk (and yes, that is very necessary), I have decided to EXPERIMENT. Bear with me for this chapter – I am very well aware that it may not seem like my usual writing style, seeing as it's entirely dialogue and the narrator is no longer semi-omniscient. And I lied, technically this is the last chapter of this section.**

**And I know I said something about needing a year from the end of the exile to the point when they'll actually be dating, but I decided that's too long so I went back and changed my previous author's notes. Besides, summer is not that great of a season to start a new relationship, in my mind anyway.**

**All rights to the Harry Potter series belong to JK Rowling.**

* * *

><p>- You know, Malfoy, from here, it doesn't seem like much.<p>

- Hm?

- Harry and Ginny's wedding. It was supposed to be _the_ wedding. The one that meant the end.

- Of the war, you mean.

- Yes. Is there ever anything else?

- …No. I suppose not. Not here.

- Not here?

- The magical world.

- Oh.

- Still odd to think that I know a world outside of this one?

- Maybe. Not really. No. I have proof in my closet.

- Proof?

- …The postcards. They're in a box.

- You kept them?

- Didn't I say I did?

- No. You told me you kept waiting for one from where I lived.

- And you told me they were pictures of Scotland.

- I did.

- Well, they're in the back of my closet.

- Why? Aren't those… public documents?

- Yes. No. That is, they would be if anyone else knew about them.

- The Wizengamot -

- They weren't in the reports.

- I thought we had to send them to you.

- You did. Yours were too short. I… wrote fake ones.

- Oh.

- …Do you mind?

- Not at all. Thank you.

- You're welcome.

- You could've just told me. I would've written longer ones so that you didn't have to bother.

- I know.

- Then…

- They were nice. The postcards. Now that I think about it.

- They weren't nice back then?

- I… I thought you said as little as possible to me for a reason. And, you know, I thought, better short than scathing. But I did worry. I did.

- About?

- Why you weren't angrier. I thought you'd… other people didn't exactly hide their feelings in the beginning. At least I knew they were being honest.

- I had nothing to be angry about.

- I… You hadn't done anything. I sent you on a five year exile. You had everything to be angry about.

- I didn't. But I'm sorry I didn't send you longer letters. You'd have seen it earlier, then.

- Seen what?

- That I'm thankful, not angry.

- Thankful?

- That it wasn't Azkaban.

- Oh.

- Don't look so disappointed, Granger. I'm thankful for a lot of things you've done.

- If you're talking about Zabini staying with you -

- That too. But I suppose… the whole thing. The whole five years. I met one of my best friends in the Muggle world.

- Right. Everett, was it?

- Yes.

- …I'm glad.

- That the great Draco Malfoy has a Muggle best friend? Or that your little social project was a success?

- I never… That name, I swear to Merlin when I find the person that called it that -

- Granger, it's fine. It was a project, so it should be called one.

- But it wasn't. I never meant it to be. I just wanted to… show you. Show you who Muggles really are.

- And you have. And you thoroughly proved to us how idiotic we were. So I can't be angry, and you shouldn't feel bad in the least. Not after what… Not when you know what my side would've done to yours had we won.

- … It's not 'we'. You wouldn't have. Pansy wouldn't have. None of you -

- Maybe not willingly. But regardless.

- …

- … I hope you know how weird you are, Granger.

- What?

- For staying here with me.

- You're not making it very hard.

- For saying you trust me.

- I said I trust the man you became. And I mean it.

- I know you do. Which is why you're weird.

- So I'm a little crazy. But if I don't believe in you, who will? I was the one who got those letters. From beginning to end. From bad to better.

- It's not that easy.

- Of course it's not. But I'm trying.

- How can you forget all those things I said to you in school?

- I haven't. They're just less important.

- But they'll be with you forever, Granger. Those words. I'll live with the knowledge that I said those words and believed them wholeheartedly back then.

- Believe me, I'd be lying if I said I didn't hate you at one point in my life. It took me a long time to get here. Just like it took you a long time to sit here, at a top of a hill overlooking a wedding between your childhood enemies, alone with me.

- But I was wrong. And you had every right to hate me.

- But they're just memories. Things you can shove into a box and leave alone. They'll be there, yes, but you're not going to lug them around everywhere.

- …

- The way I see it, there are two boxes of memories: the good ones, and the bad ones. But they're sedentary, and we move on.

- …Speaking of which, Granger, aren't you missing out on a good memory right now? They're probably looking for you.

- You're changing the subject.

- You're the one who talked about moving on.

- Fine. But who's to say I'm not making a good memory right now, as we speak?

- … Is it?

- Yes.

- …

- … It'll go right in that box next to that day I held your hand and you didn't push me away. That day in the courtroom. Or is that a bad memory for you? I suppose it could be… five years is a long time to be away.

- No. It's not bad.

- …All right, then -

- That memory kept me sane for a long time in the Muggle world.

- ...

- The fact that you stood there. That you defended me. That you hated me still, but that you didn't say anything and held my hand instead, because I probably looked scared out of my bloody mind.

- …

- It's one of the most precious memories of my life, Granger. And today… today _is_ the best memory of my life.

- …No.

- No?

- Not yet.

And she kissed him.

* * *

><p><strong>Reviews are CRUCIAL for this chapter. I almost feel like they're OOC, but at the same time not.<strong>

**Your reviews will determine how I deal with their relationship in the future - I have two images of Draco and Hermione in my head, both of which end well, but there are subtle differences in their speech patterns, for instance. I opted for the minimalist approach thus far but obviously that's not going to be the best for later chapters, so please! REVIEW!**


	22. The November Sun

**Thanks to DramioneEqualsLove, EmoPrincess21, aimeeCH, SM3LLY, cynjoe, irridecent dreams, cookieemonsterr4, The Shadow Goddes, PearlAmor, xXxJust.., and Calimocho for adding this story to their alert or favorites list! Of course, much more love to those who reviewed: GoodReader, Geiko, Blackwater A, acrogirl5, 30percentalpaca, Divess, PurePotter, enlighten-d, Calimocho, jayel-amethyst, and dancindiva9567.**

**All rights to the Harry Potter series belong to JK Rowling; I own nothing but this story.**

* * *

><p>He remembers that kiss. In his 25 years of lifetime, he doesn't remember another kiss as he remembers hers, and he vows to himself that he will never kiss another woman again for the rest of the his life. But days later, all he can think about is her lips, her scent, her hair – the shy smile afterwards, the slight tinge of pink on her cheeks, the quiet sounds of the night as the party wound down to an end and one by one, the dots of light at the bottom of the hill blinked out. And he told her to go, go see her friends before they go off to their honeymoon, even though all he wanted to do then was dance with her one more time, stay with her one more minute, just so he can have that one more moment in case it was a dream.<p>

He keeps waiting for her to ignore his owls or worse, send one back that says she can't see him anymore, that it was all a mistake and that kiss was just nothing. But it's days later and she tells him yes to the short message he sent yesterday, asking her if she would like to have dinner together that coming Friday.

She tells him yes. Yes, yes, yes, he chants in his head as he makes his way through the winding hallways of the Manor and heads down for lunch with his parents in the solarium. He'd sent her flowers the day after the wedding (after he was done mulling over exactly what happened the night before, lying in his bed until the sun was directly in the middle of the sky) – he'd received a note later that day, thanking him for the flowers. Her handwriting is exactly as he remembers from that one letter he'd gotten from her, all those years ago, telling him that it's all right to have Blaise in his house for the summer. He'd folded the letter carefully, put it in the wooden box, and locked the box away under the strongest locking spells he knew before hiding it amidst the knickknacks on his shelf, in front of his copy of Pride and Prejudice.

Right before the doors of the solarium, he straightens his shoulders and breathes deeply to stop the stupid grins that keep threatening to break out on his face. He hadn't even told his parents where he was going yesterday, although it was impossible that they didn't know. There's no possibility that his father would just let the fact that his son – his son, for god's sake – attended the Potter-Weasley wedding slip by without a remark of some sort. He just wishes he can hold back the uncontrollable waves of happiness that roll off of him, at least until he can get back into his room.

"You certainly seem to be in a good mood, Draco," Lucius drawls, any sort of emotion clear from his face.

"There's no reason not to be," he replies, painfully aware of the cheeriness in his voice.

"So you've made amends with Potter, then?" his father retorts, slicing evenly through the quiche and placing the piece delicately on a china plate, deceptively so.

He is momentarily surprised by his father's candor. Such directness doesn't become Lucius Malfoy, he thinks. There was a time when he would've been his father's confidant, but those years were long past.

"No. I didn't speak a word to him the whole day, actually," he says, just as honestly.

His mother looks up then, curiosity clear in the brief pause of her fork.

"And yet you came home rather late," says Lucius.

"I escorted Pansy home," he replies, still truthful. Of course, the truth ends there.

"I see," was the only answer from his father.

The quiet clinks of the silverware against the dishes are the only things in the solarium for a while, other than the brilliant sun and the occasional rustle of the plants in the room. He thinks she would like this place, the only place in the Manor with so much light and warmth and greenery even in the growing chill of winter. Well, if he could ever tear her away from the library, that is. He mentally runs through a list of rare tomes that are snuggled away in the mahogany bookshelves of the massive library in the main wing of the house, realizing with an odd sense of giddiness that he finally had someone to talk about the books with him other than his mother.

"And how is Pansy?" asks his mother, picking up the crystal glass and bringing it to her lips. "I understand that she's quite busy with preparations for the younger Miss Greengrass' wedding dress."

A snort escapes from his father, as inelegant as it is. Both he and Narcissa Malfoy look up at Lucius in surprise.

"She's serious? Marrying a Muggle?" says the Malfoy patriarch, his features filled with poorly concealed disdain. "Pity Greengrass passed away a decade ago. Perhaps he'd be able to stop this madness."

"I don't see how any of this is your business," he bites out, unable to stop himself.

Lucius stops his hands, and looks up fully to face his grown son from across the table. The two men are seated at either ends of the long table in the solarium, Narcissa Malfoy at the center. The distance makes Lucius' cold gray eyes steely, even in warm sunlight.

"Do tell, Draco. Am I supposed to congratulate the girl upon her wedding, then?"

"I will, on your behalf, since mother and I were invited."

The hard glint in his father's eyes turns lethal at the subtle dig at his house-arrest status. He wishes he could apologize or even regret his indelicate words when he sees his mother's sad eyes – after all, she's still loves his father despite all his faults - but he can't. He won't.

Narcissa clears her throat. She calls out the name of a house elf, which pops in immediately and takes her dish away. She looks at her son as if she wants to say something, but purses her mouth and exits the solarium without a second glance back. Lucius eats the last bites of his lunch without acknowledging her departure, and he keeps back the urge to throw the centerpiece at the middle of the table at his father's face. He only pushes back his half-empty plate and gets up, but he's held back by his father's voice when he's midway across the room.

"Draco," he begins, picking up the linen cloth draped across his lap and patting his mouth with a pristine corner. "Be aware that I will not hesitate to disown you should you even consider what Miss Greengrass is doing as a future possibility for yourself."

He stays frozen in the middle of solarium floor. Slowly, ever so slowly, the corners of his mouth pick up in a smirk that feels familiar to his lips. He turns around and faces his father, who watches him intently behind a customary mask.

Lucius' eyes darken a shade more from the usual grey when he sees the expression on his son's face. The son searches for a sign of remorse, anything, anything at all, in those eyes that are so like his own. But he's too angry to tell at this point, too angry to play this endless game that never relents.

Suddenly, he wishes for her honest brown eyes, the mirth in her laughter. And the thought of her gives him courage, as always, to say the words.

"And what will I lose, father, from that disconnection? Money? Reputation? The Malfoy name?" he says, his quiet voice radiating a presence he hadn't known he had.

This is when he realizes he is no longer afraid of the man who used to be the reason for almost everything he did. His judgment will never again fall from the man in front of him.

And for a moment, he feels pity for him, who lost so much of what he knew and believed, a man who had dug his own proverbial grave but who his son had saved. His shoulders a little straighter, he walks out of the solarium to find his mother.

* * *

><p>To be honest, the cluster of lilies on her desk shouldn't have surprised her, but it did. In the office she now shares with half a dozen other individuals, she ignores the catcalls from her male officemates and the jealous glances from the women. The note reminds her not to forget about their dinner tonight, and tells her to meet him at the Leaky Cauldron in Diagon Alley. With a smile, she thinks that other women would've been disappointed with the pub as the place for a first date, but she can't help but feel giddy instead. Whatever was between them now was complicated enough without her feeling slighted, and she never did care for fancy places anyway. In fact, it's nearly ingenious – any curious eyes could be averted in the smoke-filled and alcohol-drenched space of the pub, and there would be no worries about being overheard.<p>

She picks up her eyes from the note, written in his trademark slant, and breathes in the heady scent of the lilies in front of her for the second time that week.

"Well, Hermione, maybe Harry and I shouldn't have worried about you after all."

Her breath catches in her throat at the voice. Her mind goes blank for a terrifying second, and she whips her head to the side to stare into the amused blue eyes of Ron Weasley. She's never been more scared to see her best friend.

"Ron."

"So who's the bloke?"

She looks back to the lilies, begging the beautiful flowers for answers. She crosses her arms and discreetly shoves the note into the sleeve of her robe, and clears her throat, as if in embarrassment. She's trying to buy time, and since she's terrible at lying, she'll have to come up with some half-baked lie in the next ten milliseconds.

"Sorry to disappoint, Ron. It's Pansy."

Ron raises an eyebrow, an impish grin lighting his face. He reaches forward to pick up a stem from the bouquet, twirling it in his fingers and staring at her.

"Seriously. It was Pansy."

She sees a colleague's eyebrows furrow behind Ron's head, and shoots him a lethal glare to keep quiet. The rest of the office gets the message.

"For what occasion?"

"To apologize for going off with some man at Harry's wedding instead of keeping my poor spinster soul company," she says, the half-truth flowing easily.

Pansy did owl and apologize for that, after all. Of course, that was a single line in a letter filled with details about her night with the Ministry worker, who turned out to be a former Hufflepuff. Life was just funny that way.

"You're not a spinster, Mione. You know it's just that we all ended up getting married early."

"Just laugh when I make a self-deprecating joke, will you, Weasley?" she says good-naturedly.

"All right, all right. I just came by to tell you that we should have lunch together. We're involved in an international investigation, and there's a Potions Master from Tashkent who's helping us. You popped into my head, since he's bloody brilliant, this man. I'm bollocks at potions but I figured you'd like him."

She knows she looks like the same 12-year old from the first year in Hogwarts with her idiotic smile, but she can't help it. All apprehension about the lilies forgotten, she hugs her redheaded best friend tightly. For all his fumbling and indelicacy during their school years, Ron is nothing if not fiercely loyal and mindful of his friends. She just hopes the same trait will prevail over his tendency to hold a grudge if – or rather when – the truth about the lilies get out.

"You know, I know nothing about fashion but I think you should wear something white to your date," blurts out Ron, after laughing at her excitement over lunch with an old man.

"Why?" she asks, before she's even aware of what he's saying. Her eyes widen in embarrassment, and a furious blush lights her cheeks when she realizes that he hasn't bought her lie.

Ron winks at her, the easy humor ever present. She ruefully thinks that he wouldn't be like this if he only knew with whom she has a date.

"Eh, I always liked seeing Lavender in red after I gave her roses. We men aren't good with the subliminal message thing, but you'd fall for the smart ones so maybe he actually thinks about the types of flowers he sends."

"I'm telling Lavender."

* * *

><p><strong>Don't go away! I'll have another update on the weekend, since I sort of kept you waiting this week.<strong>


	23. Be Be Your Love

**Thanks to anonmum, love-them-all10, XDKirbs, tofi-stars, and sliveredroses for adding this story to their favorites list or story alert list! Infinite thanks to: TheEldest (I love multiple review writers! Thank you), Divess, acrogirl5, and Calimocho for reviews.**

**This chapter contains the MUSE for this entire FF, which is a miraculously fantastic song by Rachael Yamagata called "Be Be Your Love" that literally melts my heart every time I listen to it and is SO perfect for this story. I would suggest putting the song on Youtube and reading chapters 1-5 while listening to it, but you could also just make it the official soundtrack.**

**Also, I fudged the dates. They're really 25 during the 90s, but the 90s were so boring in comparison to the 21st century.**

**I own nothing but the plot and _Two Boxes of Memories_.**

* * *

><p>She ends up listening to Ron when she digs through her closet for something to wear for dinner with Draco. Her eyes first land on a simple blue wool sweater dress that is just form-fitting enough to be modest and attractive at the same time. Painfully aware of the chill of a London November, she wears black tights beneath and picks out black heels with closed toes. But the winter coat she chooses – and she owned a lot of winter coats, considering that she's spent most of her life in either the Scottish countryside or dreary London – is a clean, fresh white with an off-center column of buttons. Fitted at the torso and arms, the lower length of the coat flared out slightly like a skirt. Stepping out of her apartment at the edge of the Alley and walking toward the Leaky Cauldron in the coat, she feels like she matches the warm puffs of white breath that she lets loose in the chilly air.<p>

When she turns the corner from the east side of the Alley, she sees that he's wearing a charcoal-grey coat, his distinct hair covered with a black knit cap as much as possible. But there are only so many things in the world a hat can do, and covering his hair is not one of them. Smiling to herself, she walks up to him, and the customary fluttering in her stomach grows stronger with each footfall. He pulls his hands out of the pockets of his coat when he sees her coming, a faint smile mirroring her own. He comes forward, but stops after only a step. Peering into her eyes, he waits until she's the one who closes the gap between them.

"Good evening," he says quietly, and she can't help but hear the pleased note in his deep voice. It makes her blush a bit, and she's beyond thankful that the dusk of the evening hides her cheeks.

"Thank you for the flowers. Again. You really didn't have to," she says, hating the small stammer in her voice.

Wait, maybe she shouldn't have said that. She liked the flowers. He didn't _have_ to, of course, but she wouldn't mind getting them again.

"I wanted to," he answers simply.

He turns, still with that faint quirk of his lips, and opens the door to the pub open for her. She's momentarily surprised by the gesture, but then reminds herself that yes, this is actually a date and not a dinner with Harry or Ron. She hates it when Ginny's right, but maybe it really has been too long.

She steps in, and eyes the familiar pub with a small frown. Friday night at the Leaky isn't the most pleasant place in the world, she realizes; she knew that the place was regularly filled with drinks and rather greasy food, but Friday nights are apparently dominated by wizards who seem to be fighting over who can drink more Firewhiskey in one go. Well, at least no one is looking at them.

He nudges her elbow from behind her, tipping his head toward the direction of the other door of the pub. He looks around himself, frowning at the raucousness and general chaos of the pub. His patrician nose wrinkles in distaste, and she fights the urge to laugh. She would've found the habit pretentious at some point in the past, but frankly the Leaky is bloody grimy. He ushers her out of the entrance, closing the door behind him. She breathes out in a sigh of relief, feeling fresh air flood her lungs.

"You didn't think that I'd actually take you to the Leaky for dinner, did you?" he says, amusement evident in the teasing lilt of his voice. "Although, I do have to say that I didn't know it would be so disgusting this early in the night."

She laughs.

"I thought you were for a good part of the day," she says, pushing her hair out of her face when a sudden gust whips by. "But I'm glad you weren't considering it. Where _are_ we going, though?"

"You'll just have to trust me," he says, with a subtle rise of a white-blond eyebrow.

He offers her an arm, and she doesn't hesitate to take it. She was never one to be coy, and it's surprising to her how _normal_ they can be. She can believe absolutely nothing had happened between them for the past 13 years or so, believe that they're a normal couple who met at a wedding and are about to enjoy their first date. She can pretend, at least, while they are out of the magical world. To the Muggle eye, they are every bit a normal couple. That is, if one ignores the fact that he keeps a respectful distance between them.

She realizes that he's taking her to a tube station before long, and holds back another expression of surprise. She should stop being surprised by him, but everything about him is so different from the boy she used to know that she doesn't know what to think of him anymore. The aristocrat wanker she knew would never take something as plebeian as the tube. He stops on the stairwell, and gives her another raised eyebrow as if to challenge her to go underground with him. She shakes her head and follows him, slightly disoriented by the unfamiliar sight before her. She realizes that she actually hasn't set foot in the London underground since before the war, when her parents still knew her and she wasn't a self-made orphan. When had Draco Malfoy of all people become more comfortable in a tube station than she? The situation was sort of absurd, if she thought about it.

The headlights of the tube flicker into life as it bends around the corner, lighting the dark tunnel and bursting forth into the station with a screech. She links her hand with his, and they board together with matching steps.

* * *

><p>They sit side by side, speaking of everything and nothing. They avoid magical topics, but find they have plenty to talk about. He can't help but laugh at her outdated knowledge of the Muggle world – secretly he finds it hilarious but he refrains from saying anything that might damage her pride. Somehow, he doesn't think that particular trait has gone anywhere.<p>

"Apple?" she says, her eyes round. "That was the American company with the Macintoshes, no?"

"Yes. I'd say one of the rising stars of the technology world. Personally, I preferred PCs if only because the editing program I had to use was exponentially more difficult on Macs," he explains, holding back his smirk at her furrowed brows of concentration.

"And what did you call them? Smartphones?"

"IPhones. At least, the ones from Apple are called iPhones. Nifty little gadgets, they are. I still have one in my desk drawer, although I think it must be broken. The applications…"

"The what?"

And so it goes on. She, in her typical self, listens attentively, her lively brown eyes blinking rapidly to retain the information. He doesn't understand why he found her curiosity so obnoxious when they were younger – even the excited movements of her fingers to constantly push her hair out of her face gives away her eagerness, the small smiles that light her face a balm to his soul. He fights the urge to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear for her, and even as he explains the rapid changes of the past five years, he's mesmerized by the amber twinkles in her eyes.

The ground beneath their feet is cold when they rise from the underground, the sun long gone. She naturally takes his arm again, coming closer just a little bit. He tells himself that this ridiculous thundering of his heart will end at some point and gently leads her toward the street in Finsbury that is their destination. It came to him sometime in the past week (after obsessing about it and looking through an actual wizard's catalogue for magical restaurants) that there would be nothing better than for him to take her to a restaurant he went to often in the Muggle world, where he used to live. Before he could doubt his choice and opt for a 5-star restaurant that she probably wouldn't appreciate as much, he made a reservation. Although, making a reservation on a phone that seemed to cackle on Manor grounds was bloody difficult. In the end, he had to walk into the Muggle part of Wiltshire.

"The Dovetail?" she asks at his side when they stop in front of the restaurant.

"I used to come here a lot during the winter. First Muggle pub I was ever in, I think."

Her eyes are wide, and he's more than heartened to see that she likes it. So refreshingly easy to read, he thinks. She gives him a smile, and pulls on his arm to go inside.

"Let's go in! I'm cold, and I haven't been in a Muggle pub in forever," she chirps happily.

They take seats at the back, going past other booths and bars filled with people. It's a pub, but it's not nearly as raucous as the Leaky had been – they see couples like themselves, and a group of four women shooting coy looks at another group of men at a nearby booth. Tankards of tapped beer pile onto the bar counter, where waiters in jeans sweep them onto a tray and traipse down the narrow space between booths to place the tray at a booth of six people. A loud whoop goes up from one of the men at the table at the sight of the beer.

He's relieved to see that her eyes are sparkling. The grin still on her face, she looks around the dimly lit but lively pub, taking in the décor and the people and him. Her eyes land on his intent ones and her smile widens for a brief second before they're interrupted by one of the waiters.

"You should just order for me," she says. "You've been here, so you probably know what dishes are the best."

"Shepherd's pie and fish and chips, then. And pints for both of us."

It strikes him how amazingly normal this is, sitting across from one another and eating pubfare on a Friday night with a pint of beer. His father would have an aneurysm if he finds out, he thinks. Then again, wizards didn't exactly get aneurysms. He ignores a heated look from a scantily dressed girl (the wind was blisteringly cold outside – what in the world is the woman thinking?) at the table beside them, focusing entirely on Hermione and her flitting expressions of surprise and delight.

"Favorite movie, then?" she asks, taking a sip of her beer and crinkling her nose at the bitter but refreshing taste. She's probably thinking what a far cry this is from butterbeer.

"I haven't watched a lot of films. Seems silly to go to the cinema by myself."

"You know, you can rent DVDs."

He laughs, and replies with a grin.

"Yes, but it's actually faster if you stream it online."

"Oh. Right, I guess that's more popular now."

"Yes. But I don't think I'm much of a visual person, in any case. There were all those books to read piled at my flat, or manuscripts to edit if I got tired of the next miserable happening in _Blindness_."

"Oh. Saramago?"

"You read it?" he asks, perhaps a tad bit too eagerly.

"No. I tried, but I couldn't take it anymore after a while. I've always read more nonfiction. Easier, I guess."

That was true; he does remember that she rarely seemed to read novels, even in Hogwarts. Even as he sneered at her bookishness, he remembers the books she seemed to prefer, and they were always textbook-like tomes of some sort.

"Easier? A lot of people would disagree with you. Myself included."

She shrugs. Suddenly she looks a little uncomfortable, even at his teasing tone. She slows her fork, and looks up at him from her plate.

"At least it's just facts. You're less… less emotionally invested in the ending. Not just the ending, just less emotional in general."

Ah. He thinks he understands what she's trying to get at. He thinks that she is exactly the type of person to dive in headfirst into the mental turmoil that great novels tended to have, fearing for the life of the protagonist, pained at the individual problems of any character in a book. He can't imagine her with any sort of emotional detachment of any kind. Abruptly, he realizes that she's been afraid for the lives of people she's cared about since her very first year at Hogwarts, when she was just a 12 year old girl, constantly thrust into whirlpools of danger and emotional exhaustion. And he'd been a huge part of that burden on her.

If only she could imagine his remorse.

He feels almost too guilty to give her his arm again once outside in the nipping air, but she takes hold of his elbow anyway. They walk in thoughtful silence back to the tube station, the warm food in their stomachs and the subtle weight of the conversation between them rendering each person speechless. He thinks he could be happy if this is as far as they get - forget all his fantasies - just to stay in such a companionable silence with her on a cold London night.

They stroll past an open café, the light bright against the dim glow of the street lamp outside. The lingering afterscent of coffee and pastries floats out from the store despite the late hour. He curses himself for his selfishness, but he takes back what he said before – he doesn't want to go back home just yet, knowing they'd have to separate at the doors of the Leaky lest someone see them. He wants to be able to walk her home at the very least, even if it's under the cover of darkness and the occasional faded lamp in Diagon Alley. So he stops in front of the café, asks her if she wants dessert. She looks inside the window, and smiles her answer.

A chime at the door jingles when he opens the door for her. She steps in and chooses a seat near the window, taking out a cold hand from her coat pocket. He watches her rub her hands together. She orders a cappuccino, and he opts for a slice of cheesecake with her agreement.

They sit together, still quiet, but not in the least bit awkward. She sips her drink with a satisfied, slow sort of happiness. He watches her, the small spark of joy infectious.

"Draco, listen," she says suddenly.

He tries to wrap his head around the fact that she just called him Draco instead of Malfoy, that he almost doesn't understand what she's trying to say. But he calms his thundering heart and pays attention to the song that drifts out in the small café.

_Everybody's talking how I can't can't be your love__  
><em>

_But I want want want to be your love__  
><em>

_Want to be your love, for real_

Hermione looks down at the table in front of her, eyes far away, listening intently to the lyrics. The words envelope him like a slow fog.

_Everybody's talking how I can't can't be your love__  
><em>

_But I want want want to be your love__  
><em>

_Want to be your love for real__  
><em>

_Want to be your everything__  
><em>

He looks up at her when the song ends. Their eyes meet.

She gives him a leisurely smile that overtakes her entire heart-shaped face, and he matches it with his own faint one. She reaches out across the table and takes his hand in her smaller one, laces her fingers through his, never looking away.

_Everything's falling, and I am included in that__  
><em>

_Oh, how I try to be just okay__  
><em>

_Yeah, but all I ever really wanted__  
><em>

_Was a little piece of you_


	24. We Are

**Thanks to the following for adding me to their favorites/story alert list: lavaducks, sammieleelee, treenaweena, Draconis Silver, xChasingTheSunx, , Emerald-dragon90, BananathePhone, TwistedOwl, Isanarya, Asuka-sama, and hopelesszee. And as usual, much love and thanks to the reviewers: Divess, acrogirl5, TheEldest, Calimocho, TwistedOwl, and dancindiva9567.**

**So… I forgot to celebrate the MOMENTOUS occasion of reaching 100 reviews! Yay!**

**Thanks to everyone who's kept up with the story thus far; I promise to do my best not to disappoint my loyal readers.**

**This chapter is devoted to character and relationship development more than anything - more action will happen starting the next chapter, so sorry if you think it's going slowly.**

**I own nothing but the plot of _Two Boxes of Memories_.**

* * *

><p>One date becomes two, and dinners become lunches and teas. She doesn't quite understand when it became a regular thing to meet him at least twice or three times a week for meals, or when she came to wait for his (many different) owls. In fact, she knows the owls' names. That should be a rather disturbing sign, although she's not sure it's disturbing at all. Lilies are a staple on her desk, but he listened to her the second time she said it and only sends them when he figures they've withered by that point. She doesn't even know where he gets the flowers in the middle of the winter.<p>

The first snowfall of the year, she gets a note from him. It's almost the end of the her work day, and her officemates have since begun to notice that she's not staying quite so late as she used to, but she's all right with that. She's confused for a moment because it's a charmed paper airplane and not an owl, and then it hits her that he must be inside the building. Inside the Ministry.

Sudden panic rises in her like a cresting wave. Why was he here? Did something happen to him? Did the Ministry, Merlin forbid, do something to him or to Narcissa? She tears open the airplane, praying to whatever magic above that it was something she could at least handle by pulling some strings with Kingsley. Or since she's slated to move to the legal prosecution department in a week, something she can at least defend him for. Wait. She would be on the wrong side, if it came to a trial. Dear Merlin, please, please.

She reads the note with a thudding heart, and then breathes out in relief. It's a short message, but written leisurely, not hastily scrawled. She cracks into a smile as she reads it again.

_A stroll through the first snow of the year? I'll be waiting outside the phone booth. –DM_

He doesn't test the boundaries of their relationship, she thinks as she shrugs on a coat and dons a muffler. A part of her wishes he'd just wait inside the lobby, to leave through the main doors with her arm tucked in the crook of his elbow, or since more recently, her hand loosely held in his gloved one. But that's still only outside the gates of the Leaky, where no Muggle spares them a second glance other than the occasional woman admiring Draco. That irks her, but not as much as this secretiveness increasingly does. She should've just danced with him at Harry's wedding.

"What brings you to the Ministry?" she asks him once safely in the Muggle world, reveling in the quiet appreciation in his eyes when she steps out of the booth. "I had a near panic attack when I got that airplane."

"To see you, of course," he says with a joking, lopsided half-smile that isn't quite his old smirk.

"No, really."

He offers her his arm, but she takes his hand instead. Always offering, never taking. She wonders if it's pureblood etiquette for men to do so, or if it's just him. She has a sneaking suspicion it's the latter – the old Draco was arrogant enough to do whatever he wanted.

"I had business with the Minister. It's not that important."

"Oh."

She doesn't push. She doesn't really know if she has the right to, and he obviously doesn't want to talk about it. Instead, she stares at snowflakes settling on his exquisitely tailored coat. They scatter here and there on his impossibly pale hair and eyelashes, and she watches in fascination as he blinks them away.

"There's a café near King's Cross station, if you don't mind walking a bit. Everett's little sister insists that he take her there every time she comes to visit London, so I assume it's not bad," he says, gently turning them to another street.

They pass by kids throwing snowballs at each other, although the snow hasn't yet piled enough to make the snow clump well. They whoop and run from each other, ignoring the frowns on the faces of those passing by them. A little girl is out in wellies with her mother, who is trying to coax her to walk on the snow. The girl giggles, and runs away from her mother on tiny legs that waddle more than run.

She realizes that the war really is over, feeling his warmth seeping through his and her glove into her hand. She keeps feeling it nowadays, as she did during Harry's wedding when his green eyes were lit with nothing but pure joy rather than the unspeakable burdens he's had to carry his entire life. But it's little moments like these as she watches Muggle or magical people just spending a day in the snow without the overwhelming fear of the war days that everything is really done. That, and of course, the fact that her hand is held by the one man who represented so much of what the war was about.

It's then she really, really, understands the meaning of their blossoming relationship. They essentially _are_ the end of the war – the physical representations of the war really having ended, of people meeting and perhaps falling in love without the social pressures of Hogwarts houses or blood.

Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy. It was no longer just about her proving that he'd changed, or him proving that he'd repented. It was them proving that the entire wizarding world would never go down the same path again, them showing that the two sides of the war can meld.

She sneaks a look at his face. He seems just content, even as the steady snow soaks through his no doubt expensive coat and frosts on his hair. She sort of wants to tell him about her revelation, late as it is, and have him understand it too – but she thinks he gets it anyway on his own, and is secretly a little afraid that the knowledge of it will push him away from the pressure, if it is ever vocalized. So she holds her tongue, her head swirling with thoughts when he again gently stops her in front of a café that feels cozy even from the outside.

"Do you think we should at least tell Pansy?" she asks tentatively, once they are tucked away in a corner of the café, warm and dry.

He looks up from his cup of black tea, his grey eyes unreadable.

"Do you want to?"

"Well, she deserves to know. She sort of made all this happen."  
>There's that faint grin again. It's a little sad, she realizes. Or perhaps tired. She's seen it somewhere before.<p>

"Did she now?" he says, picking up his cup again.

"Didn't she?"

"I like to think it would've happened regardless."

She gets it now. She saw it on Narcissa's face, that weary, bone-tired look, in a setting very close to this. She doesn't miss the old him, never, but she feels a little pang of sympathy. But she brushes it away, because she knows he wouldn't appreciate sympathy, of all things. She still doesn't like to see the residual loneliness in his face. She wants to…

"I want to tell people," she says, her voice coming out less forcefully and far softer than she thought it would. "People we know. We can't keep…"

"…Hiding?" he supplies, when she trails off. "Granger, I don't mind if we hide for a bit more."

"You don't _mind_, or you don't _want to_?" she says even more softly.

She's momentarily afraid that he's ashamed of her, and doesn't want his pureblood friends to know. But she was on decent terms with the former Slytherins, most of them anyway. And didn't they have that conversation about Astoria during dinner a week ago? She distinctly remembers him saying, a little reluctantly, that she's braver than he thought she was. Or was he saying that he wasn't as brave as Astoria?

"Granger. Hermione. Look at me," he says, voice quiet but resonant, a sort of gravity to his words. Her heart flutters at his use of her given name, because he seldom does so, even though she calls him Draco all the time.

So she looks across at him, trying her best not to look at all upset.

"Blaise, Theo, Pansy, Greg, they'd all be fine with it, support it even. But you know Potter and Weasley won't," he pauses here, grey eyes boring into the tablecloth. "And I'm not worth losing them over."

And at those words, something inside her goes dead cold. There's sincerity in his eyes, an unshakable certainty that more than pains her to see. Here is a man who, despite all his outward confidence, doesn't even feel as though he deserves what small amount of love she can offer him.

Her heart breaks for him.

* * *

><p>"If Harry and Ron can't get over it, they're not the friends I thought they were," she says with a little huff. "We've been through far too much together for them to so completely ignore my happiness."<p>

He can see the conviction in her eyes. It should reassure him, it really should, but it doesn't. Yes, of course those two buggers will accept him with open arms because they were saints, he thinks sarcastically. To be honest, he doesn't feel all that friendly toward Potter or Weasley, even if he should apologize for his past behavior and maybe, just maybe, tell them that they were on the right side the whole time. He supposes he should thank them too, considering that it was them who kept Hermione safe from his father and Death Eaters all these years. But he's not going to do any of that, because at his heart he's still a proud, cowardly bastard. And especially because he feels a pang of jealousy at them for having had her by their side all these years. He doesn't think either Potter or Weasley will come down from their righteous pedestal like Hermione to really accept him, and he can't condemn her to that. He'd done enough damage in her life.

"Hermione," he begins, even though he sees that her eyes are wet with unshed tears. This is the first time she'll cry in front of him, and he knows she's trying to not make a scene, so he won't point out her tears until they actually fall. "If you think all it'll take is a lot of convincing, then I'm happy to wait. It's something I've learned to do."

A drop sits precariously at the corner of her eye, and he can't resist the urge in the end so quickly reach out and swipe it away. She blinks when his hand comes near her face, but he catches it before it travels down her snow-bitten cheek.

"Don't say that," she says, wiping a hand across her face as if she just realized that she was the on the verge of crying. Always the little warrior, she was.

"Say what?"

"Don't say you've learned to wait like that. It's… it's so unfair. Everything's just been so unfair to you for all these months."

He smiles faintly. He realizes this is how they always will be – he'll see the glass half empty, and she'll always see it half full. He'll be a cynic to the end, and she'll be the optimist. And he hopes that this balance stays with him for as long as he can possibly manage, because in the past month that he's had the chance to be with her – there's no other real description for it yet – he's found that he doesn't really know how to be without her anymore. He can't imagine the depression he'd be in if it weren't for her, cooped up in the Manor with its already drafty hallways becoming downright frigid in the winter. He'd probably have found every excuse to be out with Everett, drinking his liver down to oblivion.

"I don't think unfair is quite the right word."

"Maybe not, but whatever it is, I won't have my friends add to that. You deserve your peace, just like everyone else," she says stubbornly, her chin jutting out in that defiant way she had.

"I'm more at peace than I've ever been," he finds himself admitting, because it's true. He just can't confess that it's all because of her, yet.

"But…" she trails off, thinking, but a spark comes back into her eyes at whatever memory she's found. "Do you remember Luna?"

"Loon…" he begins reflexively, but catches himself at her warning glare. "Lovegood. Yes. I do."

"Well, she told me I deserve to be happy," she says, the heat in her eyes spreading to her flushed cheeks. "And I thought, I do. I do deserve to be happy, because I went through a lot of shite, and so did you."

"You know, you said this all at the wedding."

She bites her lower lip at that. He can tell she's annoyed, but she can't get a rise out of him, because he sort of finds this all endearing and amusing.

"I know, but you seem to need a reminder," she says heatedly, but her irritation deflates almost immediately. Her next words come out in a near whisper. "So don't say things like that. You shouldn't have to wait. They should give you a chance, even if for no other reason than that I… well, that I'm happy with you. That should say something, no?"

He gives her the best smile he can manage, which he knows isn't much. He never was very good at smiling. Smirks, though, were his specialty. But there are just less things in life that deserve smirks, now that he's 25 and been through a lot of shite, as she so eloquently put it. But this smile is sincere, as every smile is with her. But her words make him happier than she can imagine.

"You know, I thought we were almost fighting there for a second," he says lightly, hoping the conversation was behind them.

"Were we?" she asks, frowning just a tiny bit.

"Probably not. We've said much worse things to each other back in the day… when you slapped me in third year, that was a real fight."

She sniffs, but he catches the little quirk of her lips.

"It should've hurt. You were a real arse back then," she says.

"I was," he agrees, but his voice loses some of its lightness. "And that's how Potter and Weasley remember me, Granger."

She doesn't say anything. Instead, she only looks steadily back at him, so he sighs.

"So give it time, all right?" he says in the end, unable to say much else. No, he could say more, but he won't, because it won't change much. As an afterthought, he decides to say just one more thing.

"I'm not going anywhere."

* * *

><p><strong>I'll be honest. I had a real dilemma with my version of Draco. It's not feasible that he's the same impatient asshole that he was in the books – the very brief glimpse of Draco we saw in the epilogue told me that he's grown into someone who values family but is civil and mature. Hopefully, I've done a good enough job to make it believable that he retains some characteristics as the Draco Malfoy we see in the books (like the sarcastic comments he makes to himself, or the way he likes getting a rise out of Hermione), has characteristics that make sense as a result of his upbringing (like his cryptic way of talking), and whatever traits he's gained from being redeemed.<strong>

**Please REVIEW! You guys have been awesome with it so far – I love you all!**


	25. Revelations Amidst Noise

**Thanks to those who added _Two Boxes of Memories_ on story alert/favorites list: ThornedHuntress, LucyLemmers13, OnaTorre, Makikie, albaloo, RuyahBel, LunaZu, angelussv1, chst, Snowe, and SarikaS.**

**Of course, so much love to those who reviewed: enlighten-d, Calimocho, GoodReader, Divess, TheEldest, camou-191, Snowe, and OnaTorre.**

**And Snowe, you're right, now that I think about it! It all did just start from a handhold and postcards. But it's always the small things that make you fall in love, isn't it?**

**I know it's been SO long since I posted, but I really had a tough time with this chapter - the confrontation had to come but everything just seemed so unnatural so I had to wipe the second part of the story three times. This isn't my favorite chapter, but it's necessary both as a transitional thing and as a plot thing. So here goes.**

**I own nothing but the plot of this story.**

* * *

><p>Pansy doesn't look surprised in the least. In fact, if she has to describe Pansy's face right now, it'd be one of pure glee, practically spewing 'I told you so' without having to say a word of it. She scowls at Pansy's smug expression, but she can't do much about it. It's frankly a complete and utter relief to know she has at least one person on her side. Perhaps this won't be so difficult after all.<p>

"So, details?"

"I told you, it's really just that. The garden party. The dance at the wedding. That's it."

"Hermione, believe me when I say I know Draco isn't his old self, but that's impossible. You've seen him. You've done more than seen him. Withdrawn would be a mild word for him! He's more like a hermit. There _has_ to be something from before."

"You know that's out of the question. I never saw him for five years, and we exchanged the shortest of letters…"

"_Exchanged_? Does that mean you sent him something back?"

Bugger. Pansy Parkinson, psychic extraordinaire, she thinks with an internal roll of her eyes.

"Just once. He asked me if Blaise could stay with him and I just sent him a note saying yes."

Pansy narrows her eyes. She knows all the calculations that are going on in that fashionable head of hers, because Pansy is brilliant at these intuition things. That's not to say she herself is oblivious, but she never had much of a head for gossip and romance. Ginny always did joke that her head was buried too deep in a book to notice what's staring at her in the face.

"You're not telling me something."

She sighs audibly.

"Pansy, there's absolutely nothing. Other than that one letter, we had no exchanges, and we only had any sort of civil social interaction at his garden."

She doesn't mention the courtroom, because she knows Pansy won't understand. She's only ever heard about it from Draco himself once, and the memory is something too precious, like a fragile little gem that will splinter with the slightest touch. Draco and she hold it between them like an undisturbed feather, but they hold it together, knowing that that smallest of gestures is what brought them together in the end. The memory is theirs, and theirs alone.

"Well, all right. So who else knows about it?"

Figures Pansy would care about being the first to know. She grins, and Pansy looks back with a delighted face.

"No one," she tells her friend. "And you'll be the first to congratulate both of us, I suppose. He's coming here in just a minute."

Pansy's blue eyes light up in surprise this time, and she can't hold back a small peal of laughter at the realization that begins to dawn in Pansy's face. Pansy's head darts around to look around, but finally settles with a frown. It's no wonder Pansy is surprised – they were, after all, seated in a Muggle shopping center in London, trying to pick out Christmas gifts for their respective friends. She'd told Draco to meet them there before she came, and casually strolled over to the men's shops to pretend to pick out things for Harry, Ron, and the other Weasleys. Or so Pansy thought, until she started poring over a tie that neither Harry nor Ron had any occasion to wear. Pansy's questioning look was the perfect excuse to unburden everything to her.

"You're joking, aren't you? He can't come here! I still haven't picked a gift for him yet…" Pansy trails off, her eyes fixed on something in front of her.

"I don't need anything, Pansy," says a familiar voice, and she feels a quick peck on the top of her head.

It humbles her to know that the voice is now so familiar that she'll recognize it anywhere, no matter where it is. She also rather likes his small sign of affection, because he really doesn't do those types of things often. But they hadn't seen each other for a few days now because of her first assignment at her new job, so she thinks she can understand. She breathes just a little easier.

"How are you?" he asks her, grey eyes deep with the lighting at his back. "You look tired."

Not as much as you do, she thinks. The weary look is like a scar on his beautiful face, marring the smooth line of his nose and the perfect blondness of his eyebrows.

"I'm all right," she responds with a smile.

Pansy watches from the side, and rolls her eyes.

"Blimey, you two. I didn't know you'd get this gross. It's not like I needed convincing, you know."

Draco chuckles. It heartens her more than he can imagine, so she just gives Pansy a smug smile and laughs when Pansy makes a gagging noise.

"Or maybe I'm being ignorant and not getting the message. Well, enjoy your date, Hermione. I'll remember you left me for Draco," says Pansy, shaking her head good naturedly and getting up from the seat. "I'm knackered, anyway. I'm off to the Leaky."

When Pansy leaves, she heaves a deep breath and pulls out a small box from the oversized shopping bag at her feet, feeling distinctly nervous. It isn't much, it really isn't, but just like telling Pansy had made their relationship so much real for her – not that she thinks it's fake, but she just has a hard time waking up in the morning and realizing that he's hers – this would make it all the more real. It's wrapped in silver foil and a white ribbon in a simple lace design. He peers down at the box when she holds it out to him instead of taking it from her hand.

"Christmas is still a week away," he says, evidently a little confused. "Unless you're busy and can't see me between now and then."

He seems nonchalant, but his half-smile fades a little. She takes his hand with her other one, and places the box delicately on the large palm, giving his hand a squeeze. The callus on his index and middle finger from pen use brushes her hand, and she rubs it with her thumb. Merlin, she really did miss him. And it'd only been a few days.

"It's for Narcissa," she says, looking into his face for a reaction. "I don't think I'll be able to give it to her face to face, so I was hoping you could give it to her for me discreetly."

He looks stunned. He looks up from the box to her face. All of a sudden, a glowing smile overtakes his face, so unexpected and gorgeous that she has to suck in a breath. He leans forward and gives her another kiss on the top of her head, and slowly pulls his hand from hers to carefully fold her into an embrace.

"Thank you," he whispers, mouth tickling her bangs as he rests his lips against her forehead. "She'll love it."

She pulls him in more, wrapping her own arms around his waist. She merrily looks up at him, pleased with the uncharacteristic initiative on his part.

"You don't even know what it is!" she says with a laugh.

"It doesn't matter what it is," says Draco with a grin. She could give him a thousand gifts to see him smile like that, lifting the mental exhaustion from his face completely.

"Mother will love it, because it's from you."

* * *

><p>He wonders if she realizes that they should've separated at the door of the Leaky, Muggle side. She was laughing at something he'd said (considering he doesn't have the best sense of humor, one can only imagine at what), and he was busy admiring her easy laughter to pay attention. And before they knew it, they were already midway through the Leaky Cauldron with her arm hooked through his.<p>

He glances at Hermione to signal her to stop and slowly begins to dislodge his arm from hers when he notices she's not paying attention to him at all. Her eyes are frozen forward, her body stiffening and cold fingers inching up his forearm. Her nails dig into where the Mark would be.

"Hermione?"

Bloody hell. Bloody, bloody hell. He doesn't even have to look up from her face to know that voice, the arsehole. Of all days, of all the days in the world, the great git decides to be in the Leaky at precisely this time. He closes his eyes momentarily, praying to a god, any god, that the voice he heard is merely in his paranoid imagination.

"Malfoy…? Hang on," says the Boy Who Lived. "Hermione, what is this?"

_What_, he says. He grits his teeth internally, hearing the confusion and clear disapproval in Potter's voice. Hermione's grip tightens on his arm even more, and that small amount of pain forces his eyes open to see her still staring at her best friend, silent. He resigns himself to his unfortunate fate and looks toward Potter, who is half-standing from his booth, tousled hair and glasses and all. Sitting across from Potter, the Weaselette looks directly at him, her eyes trained on his grey ones. Her eyes slide down to Hermione's hand at his arm, and he sees the freckles on her nose crinkle.

"Potter," he says first, letting Hermione's voice catch up with her mind. He can tell the cogs of her infinitely complex brain turn madly – he knows she's not yet ready to tell Potter or Weasley, no matter what she says. Or perhaps she just wanted to do it under her own terms, rather than be surprised like this. He can't speak for her, but this is unmistakably a situation in which the water has already spilled.

"Potter," he says again, when the git refuses to respond. "That's hardly the way to go about greeting your best friend, isn't it?"

"No one asked you," Potter says angrily, his green eyes blazing as understanding slowly begins to dawn on him. "Hermione, what's going on?"

Hermione's head snaps up. She glances first at him, so he hopes that she sees the calm in his eyes and takes comfort from it. He couldn't care less what she tells Potter at the moment – she could tell him a flimsy excuse (although everyone present is perfectly aware of her appalling inability to lie) or tell him the truth, to her emotional distress. He almost prefers the former, just to avoid seeing her upset. But he knows her too well at this point. As if to prove him right, the glint in her eyes changes and the tip of her chin goes up just a little bit in a telltale sign.

Ah, his little warrior.

"I'm coming back from Christmas shopping with Draco," she says, her voice clear and steady. Her grip on his arm loosens, and slides down to grasp his fingers in her hand. He hopes the warmth in his hands gives her strength.

"_Draco_?" Ginny Weasley, no, Ginny Potter, breathes out incredulously at Hermione's use of his given name, her voice slightly higher than usual.

"Hermione, have you gone barmy?" says Potter softly, shaking his head. His longtime rival looks around the pub, as if checking if this is some sort of a prank. His eyes land on their intertwined hands, and quickly dart back up to face Hermione and him.

"Please tell me this isn't what it looks like, Mione," says the redhead almost pleadingly. "You can't be serious."

Hermione doesn't look ruffled in the least.

"It is," she says simply, and leaves it at that.

He can tell that the two Potters are about to make a scene, because neither of them really have the tact to respond to that well. He tugs on Hermione's hand and lifts his eyebrow, tipping his head toward the door. Hermione shakes her head determinedly. She waits until one of them speaks.

"Listen, Malfoy, I don't know who you think you are, but…"

"Potter, before you go accusing innocent people, remember that you're in public, would you? And you're a very, _very_ public figure."

Potter sputters into silence at that, his face getting slightly pink with contained anger. He can tell Potter wants to deck him, but sadly for him, the Boy Wonder won't get a chance. Hermione sighs heavily next to him, and he can tell that she's unsure how to go on. He runs his thumb across her knuckles briefly, enveloped in a weird sense of calm even in the current chaos. He thinks he hears loud guffaws at the bar, but can't bring himself to care. Somewhere in the back of his mind a thought flits across, telling him that there's been more than enough time for anyone from the _Daily Prophet_ to have snapped this rather revealing standoff. He pegs a reminder to himself that he should tell at least his mother before tomorrow's paper comes out, or madly contact people at the _Prophet_ to block any articles that may arise. To think that months of taking care not to be seen together would crumble in such a short instant.

"Don't be angry at her," he says while the Potters stew in their self-absorbed anger and find words to speak. "Although, you have no right to."

The new Mrs. Potter finally snaps.

"Is this what you've been doing behind our backs, Hermione? Have you been bringing him to our flat? Is he the one sending you all those lilies?" says the Weaselette, her face becoming the color of her hair. "How could you? How could you date this _opportunistic_, _calculating_ ferret?"

Hermione tenses next to him. He tries to soothe her with another rub of his thumb, and he longs to draw her closer, for her as much as for himself. Well, he did deserve that. He was an opportunistic and calculating bloke, after all. He frequently wonders himself why Hermione would even see him, but to have it laid out so bare hurts him, just a little. Just in case she's swayed by her friends' sensible logic.

"First of all, it's not your flat anymore," begins Hermione, her voice hiding the tremor of her body. "Yes, he's the one sending the lilies, and I didn't go behind your back. At all. You react like this and you ask me why I didn't tell you anything?"

"Hermione…" tries Potter, while trying to keep his seething wife in place. "How long has it been?"

"…Almost three months," he replies when Hermione just stares at Ginny in undisguised anger. "I should thank you, Potter. It was really your wedding that brought us together, in the end."

Maybe that was a low blow. But he doesn't feel anything but enmity toward the Potters right now – having Hermione attacked like this only makes him worse, in addition to being the cocky arse he usually is.

"Don't, Draco," says Hermione quietly from next to him, turning toward the door. "Let's just go. They should have time to think about it."

"There's no thinking to be done, Hermione Granger! I should've known when you started getting chummy with Parkinson," says Ginny, biting her lower lip.

Hermione turns back. Her expression is one of sadness, and he doesn't want to see her with that face, but there's nothing he can do, short of becoming someone else.

"Harry," she says, almost inaudible in the loudness of the pub. "Do you remember, all the way back then, five years ago? That day you helped me move in, you told me the world works in strange ways? Do you remember that?"

"Yes," says Potter warily, but the anger is seeping out of his face.

"Well, it does. I just wanted you to know that. I went back to my old flat to say goodbye, you know, really start again like you told me to. And I found Draco's letter because of that."

This is the first time he's hearing about this. The sense of irony is almost ridiculous – it really does seem like he owes a lot to Potter, at least when it comes to Hermione. When it comes to _them_.

"I didn't want to thank you this way, Harry," says Hermione to Potter, but her eyes are on his now, looking into his grey eyes with her chocolate ones. "But thank you. And merry Christmas, Harry, Ginny…"

He tips his head forward toward her, and slips her a smile, half-hidden by shadows and certainly invisible to the Potters.

"I think I'll just spend it with Draco this year."


	26. Tea, With Milk and a Teaspoon of Sugar

**Thanks to those who added the story or me to their alert/favorite list: yellowzinnias, and khpmi.**

**Love to those who reviewed: TwistedOwl, Divess, and yellowzinnias (and I don't believe that about romance writers either, it's just Draco).**

**Wow, there's such hate towards Ginny! It really wasn't my intention to make her this much of a villain. She means well, she's just temperamental. I personally liked how feisty she is in the actual books. She's also a damn good Quidditch player, which I love.**

**Also, I guess there were a lot of people unhappy about my late update. This is the saddest amount of reviews I've gotten since… well, in a while. But hopefully this chapter will get more! I do have a little lime (?) candy for y'all…**

**I own nothing but the plot of the story.**

* * *

><p>Draco's steps are quiet shuffles on the pavement beside her. The light from the lamps lit at the doors of each building in Diagon Alley highlight their feet, and occasionally shine upon Draco's hair almost blindingly. They walk in silence, but she appreciates that he is walking her home, lending her his warmth before she inevitably goes back to the overly large, empty flat that speaks of winter and the cold. She's never missed Crookshanks so much in her life, bless his cranky cat heart.<p>

She wonders what he'd say if she asked him to come in. She's only just realized that they have indeed been in a relationship for three months, the moment he said so to Harry. She frankly hadn't realized that it's been that long – he's melted into her life so completely and wholly that she wasn't aware of the passage of time. She's equally unaware that they've arrived at her flat, until he stops and quirks his head to the side. She doesn't actually ask how he knows that he's at the right place, although she thinks about it.

"Pansy," he says, as if reading her mind. "Before we actually started… dating, she insisted that I know where you live. She tried to get me to drop off your birthday present here."

She cracks a smile at the hesitant way he says the word 'dating'. It's not an adequate word for what they are, because dating sounds so trite and casual in comparison. It's more difficult than that – as that evening so thoroughly proved.

"Draco," she begins tentatively, already feeling apologetic at the horrid way Harry and Ginny reacted to him. "Harry and Ginny… I mean, the thing is, it's just weird for them, you know? They'll come around. Well, Harry will. Ginny might take longer."

He breathes in. She looks up at him at the sound, afraid that he's angrier about it than he seems. But all she sees are the crooked corners of his lips, and the tiredness that returns to his features.

"Hermione, I could care less about how they treat me. I'm sorry it didn't go the way you wanted it to."

He says that a lot. He's sorry for a lot of things, it seems. She's noticed he doesn't say it often to anyone else, but the word lives in his mouth when he's near her.

"I should just owl Ron, now that the cat's out of the bag," she tells him, trying to put humor in her voice. "He'll be better than his sister."

"Will he?" asks Draco, an eyebrow inching up his forehead in disbelief. She doesn't blame him – Ron was more temperamental than Ginny, if anything.

"He will. He's changed a lot, too. I think you'd like him," she says, a full grin on her face at the thought of Draco and Ron at a pub somewhere, watching a football game like he and Everett do.

"I doubt that," says Draco, the same wry expression on his face. "But tell him however you'd like. You can reach me if you need to."

She nods, and he gathers her into a careful but warm embrace that is just so typical of him. She seriously wants to ask him to come in, and just be there in case Ron decides to Floo her and begin screaming. She doesn't think he will, but just in case. And because she wants an excuse to stay with him longer.

"Doyouwanttocomein?" she says as fast as she can into his shoulder, the words running together in her mouth and coming out much more garbled than she intended. She blushes and hides her face.

His face doesn't change at her question. He blinks once, and then twice, and merely nods with an expressionless face when she pulls back from him to look at him. She leads him in by the hand, mentally running through every room in the flat to make sure there was nothing offending or embarrassing hanging out in the open. Her thoughts flit to a shoebox in the back of her closet, and she sneaks a look at him as if he'll know what she's thinking.

The flat is silent, as usual, lit with a slightly eerie glow from the outside lamps. She points her wand at the fireplace foremost, so it blazes with a wild light, dying down to become a warm, steady presence in the empty room. He doesn't actually set his foot inside, standing by the door instead. She glances at him, leaning heavily on the mantelpiece to take off her own shoes. She thinks he looks a little funny, awkwardly standing there with his coat and boots still on. She waves her wand another time to light the lamps scattered throughout the room – she hates the dark, so the flat is always flooded with light wherever she is – and the curtains are charmed closed.

"Tea?" she asks, flushing a little when the full lit light hits his figure. "They're nowhere near the quality of the tea at your Manor, but it's not bad."

He snaps out of his reverie then, and his hands slowly travel over his coat to unbutton the garment. She takes it from him and hangs it in the closet by the entranceway, feeling distinctly odd at seeing his large coat next to hers.

"Black tea, thank you," he says, his voice formal.

She feels like they've almost reverted back to the so, so tentative first meals they shared together, the careful conversation to avoid talking about things that the other person will be uncomfortable with. She heads to the kitchen and sets the kettle on the flame with yet another wave of her wand, taking out her best packets of tea leaves that Ginny gave to her for her birthday and putting the strainer in the kettle. Her hands on the counter, she wonders what he's doing in her living room by himself – would he be looking through the pictures on her mantelpiece? She remembers that they have no pictures together as of yet, and reminds herself to take one when he's not looking. The kettle shrieks next to her.

She mixes in a few spoonfuls of milk to his mug and stirs in one teaspoon of sugar, watching the liquid clouding like smoke rising from the bottom. She keeps hers pure and heads to the living room with both mugs in hand, only to find him reading a book she'd left on the side table. She shakes her head at the sight, laughing a little to herself because sometimes they were so much more alike than they could've ever thought only five years ago.

She wordlessly hands him the mug, and receives a grateful half-grin in return. He takes a sip – then bursts out laughing.

"Half a cup of milk, a teaspoon of sugar?" he asks, an eyebrow raised in mirth.

"Isn't that right?" she asks, confused.

"It is. I just… Thank you," he says. "I doubt even my own father knows how I like my tea."

She doesn't know what to say to that. She can only go forward and give him, still sitting on her sofa, a tight hug - remind him that he's not alone even if it's been that way for ages. This is when she counts herself lucky, even if she's technically an orphan at this point. A younger her would be offended at the uncharacteristically cold sneer (did she really just say that's uncharacteristic? but it's true) that is blossoming on his face, as if he thought her sympathy worthless. But she knows that's not actually how he is. So she only embraces him harder and pulls his head to her stomach, feeling his breath on the fabric of her shirt.

He leans back, a warmer smile on his face, setting down the mug of tea on the coffee table. She sees the silent question in his eyes and a soft pressure on the small of her back to sit on the sofa with him, so she goes just a little farther as usual and sits on his lap.

* * *

><p>With her, things always go in slow motion but time passes before he realizes it. She's the first to press her lips to his, taste the subtlety of sugar and black tea on him, give before he asks because he still doesn't know how to ask even after all these years. He's the one to finally give into the selfish want inside of him and take more, breathing in the love she offers him and the inherent scent of cinnamon on her lips, mixed with just a hint of black tea. He hears her breath hitch a little when his hand roams up her side and back down, catching on the hem of her shirt. He pulls back from the overwhelming kiss to look into those disarming eyes of hers, their noses touching.<p>

"Hermione…" he half whispers, hoping she hears the rapid run of his heartbeat and the warning laced in her name.

She steadily looks back at him, and just nods. He doesn't know if he has the heart, but her small fingers latch onto his biceps and smoothes the fabric, calming him so that he can forgive himself for what he's about to do. Because he knows there's no going back – frankly, he knows that from a third party's point of view (for instance, Everett's), he's held back for a ridiculously long period of time for the 21st century. But he can't help it, because Hermione is Hermione Granger.

But tonight, he slips the shirt off of her outstretched arms, lets her unbutton his own shirt and claims her lips again. The kiss deepens before he's aware of it, her scent and the warmth of her mouth sending him into a spiral of confusion where he loses more and more of his mind, to be completely overtaken by his senses. Her small hands travel on his chest and the taut muscles of his back, and he reverently lays her back onto the sofa. Their lips never separate once until they both have to come apart for air; the sounds of ragged breathing is the only thing filling the flat, other than the occasional crackle of the fire.

"Bed," is the only thing she says before he picks her up and her legs wind around his waist.

She laughs when he flounders for a moment, trying to figure out what door leads to her bedroom. He can't help the full grin that lights his face as he leans forward for another kiss, following the direction of her pointed finger. He sets her down on the bed, and he only briefly notes that the comforters are a shade of forest green before he realizes that she's kicked off her pants. Then he can't really pay attention to anything else – he worships her skin, inch by inch, either with a careful caress or with his lips, works off the rest of her clothes and his own.

Then there is nothing in the world but her, anticipation and just a little bit of fear in her face that he promptly kisses off. His fingers run across her breasts, he revels in the small sounds she makes, and he offers a silent prayer in the end to Merlin, magic, God, whatever power that exists in this world.

Please, please, let her be happy. Let me make her happy.

He still waits before he joins her body, gives her this last chance to stop him. She gazes back at him with half-lidded but sparkling eyes, smiling slyly. She brushes the hair falling into his eyes away with nimble fingers, and gives him a kiss of consent and trust, that enticing taste of cinnamon tempting him beyond imagination. He hears the small curse of pleasure that drops from her lips against his own when he finally gives in and enters her, trying to keep himself in control again and again with a deluge of wordless mantras in his head.

At the very edge of his sanity, he struggles – but eventually, he hears her scream his name even in the fogged depths of his mind, and in relief, follows her past the brink. He quickly rolls off of her and drags the rumpled sheets up to cover her before anything else, as if someone might see her. He can tell from the exhausted but lively eyes that she thinks it's funny that that's the first thing he does. She shuffles closer to him and lifts the sheet to cover him also, her rapid breathing slowing down little by little.

"I don't think I can give you a better Christmas gift than this," she whispers into the night, lit only by the single glow of a nightstand charmed to turn on when someone steps into the room.

He laughs, pausing again before he pulls her into his chest, hand tangling into her curls.

"You think you were that great, do you?" he asks jokingly, laying a kiss on her forehead before she can draw back and take him seriously like she so frequently does before she looks at the expression on his face.

"That's not what I meant…" she begins, scowling, but she can't keep the face on for long. She breaks into laughter, snuggling into him more.

"You're incorrigible, Draco Malfoy."

"So I've heard."

Bugger. It's only as they're drifting off to sleep that he remembers she forgot to Floo Weasley, and he forgot to stop whatever malicious article that was printing in the _Daily Prophet_ probably at that very moment.

But nothing, absolutely nothing can break this moment for him right now, not with her sleeping in his arms. Not when he's been blessed with something that he never thought he could have, much less this particular person.

So he sleeps, free from the dreams that plague him and utterly, absolutely content.

Outside, a single flake of snow falls onto the windowsill of her bedroom, and discovers an eternal memory within.


	27. Meeting the Family

**More love for: Crayola369Kitten, Creative WriterXAnimal Lover, ChiffonShock, Graassss, NarniaMagicLOTRDisneyLover, spotto97, Chrysantheme, Mydnyght Rayvyn, roseberrygirl, hastur42, and HalfBloodPotter93 for adding me/the story to their favorites/alert list!**

**And as always, the MOST love for my reviewers: Divess, TwistedOwl (I hope you don't mean a ring… that won't be for a while, sorry to burst your bubble), ChiffonShock, Snowe, dancindiva9567, Calimocho, TheSandGirl (Man, that was one of the best reviews I've ever gotten! Thank you!), and hastur42.**

**Finally got some time to write this Independence Day morning (Happy July 4th!), so here it is! I write too much, ugh.**

**I own nothing but the plot of this story. The rest belongs to JKR.**

* * *

><p>In the morning, she wakes up in a cocoon of warm skin and sheets. Her first thought is of pure happiness at that fact that she is neither alone nor cold – then the inevitable torrent of memories hits and she scrambles to be more awake than she actually is. Thankfully, she still has the presence of mind to move slowly, lest Draco wake beside her. She carefully turns to her left side to face him, and discovers him fast asleep, snow-blonde eyelashes cast over his cheeks.<p>

She counts each lash on his impossibly pale face, and traces each small scar in the air with her fingertips. She pulls the sheets a little tighter around herself (although, it doesn't matter in the least), basking in his sleeping presence. She doesn't want to leave the bed until he wakes up, so they can have breakfast together and ignore the outside world for just a moment.

Just a moment. Hold up the onslaught of time and questions and confrontations, and just be by themselves for a moment.

"Something wrong?" he asks quietly, his eyes still firmly closed as if asleep.

She realizes that he's actually been aware of her staring, and lightly hits him on his upper arm before making the attempt to get up. His warm hands stop her midway, running up and down her exposed arms and rubbing the gooseflesh away with his touch.

"We have a nightmare day ahead of us, if you haven't realized yet," she says, covering one of his hands on her arm with her own. "And won't your parents wonder where you are?"

"Hardly," he replies, slowly dragging her upper body back down from its upright position back into his arms. He gives a small sigh, as if in relief, and finally cracks his eyes open to give her a sleepy, unguarded smile. "And the world can wait for just a moment."

She can't hold back a wide smile at that, although what he says before that bothers her a little.

"But Narcissa…"

"I do have to give her your gift, now that I think about it," he says, cutting her off. "But I'm a grown man. Not a child."

"I know. It's just… I'd rather you not worry them."

He chuckles.

"Them? You make it sound like my father gives a damn about where I've been all night."

"He will, won't he? Especially when you've been with me."

His face hardens. The contours of his face take on a decidedly marble-like quality, and the grey of his magnificent eyes look downright metallic.

"It's none of his business."

And none of mine, she thinks. But she can't just let him do this, because before he knows it, Lucius Malfoy will be gone and he'll only have regret left in his already damaged heart. And she can't just let him do that.

"Draco…"

"Let's have breakfast. I'm good with coffee, but rubbish with everything else. You'll have to cook, I'm afraid."

He starts pushing the sheets back, before he realizes that he's not actually wearing anything underneath. She watches him rummage around the room, dragging part of the sheet with him. Fine then. She won't push him just yet, because she still isn't quite sure if she has the right to, and frankly the ridiculousness of watching Draco Malfoy walking around her room half-clothed in just sheets doesn't let her be serious for even a second.

"Eggs? Toast? Cereal?" she asks later, staring at the shelves of her open cupboard.

"Cereal? What kind? Some just taste like cardboard," he responds, coming to stand behind her.

She realizes that it's no longer jarring to talk about such Muggle things with him – talking about cereal brands with him has somehow become normal in her life, although the novelty of spending a morning together hasn't faded in the least.

"Only healthy kinds. Sorry," she says, picking up the box of whole-grain cereal and handing it to him to read.

"Like I said, some just taste like cardboard," he replies with a teasing tone.

"I'll buy other ones. Just tell me what you like," she tells him, taking out two mugs for coffee and digging for jam and spreads.

He doesn't respond behind her. She becomes curious at his lack of an answer, and turns around to find him with a cocked grin, radiating his quiet aura of happiness that makes her feel privileged to know him this way. Gone are his metallic eyes – his eyes are the warmest color of charcoal grey, one she knows was reserved for her only, and even then only noticeable at the rarest of moments.

"What? What did I say?" she asks happily, his mood affecting her.

"Not much. I just thought I'll have to come back to empty those boxes of unhealthy cereal that you won't eat otherwise."

Sipping coffee that he made, eating cheap toast with plain marmalade jam, complaining about her rather incompetent boss (to which he only said, 'who's not incompetent in comparison to you, Hermione?'), and listening to outrageous pureblood legends about his extended family, she could honestly believe that everything would be all right. She forgets about Ron, Lucius Malfoy, Rita Skeeter, and whoever else had troubled her, and resigns herself to a morning of bliss.

But alas, all good things must come to an end, she thinks, when loud, consecutive knocks on the door startle both of them. She and Draco exchange looks across the table, and after a second or so he gets up with cups and plates in hand to head to the sink.

"Go open the door," he tells her, speaking over the sound of running water. "I'll be right here."

So she reluctantly heads to the front door, gathering her fast-scattering wits about her and trying to come up with the most articulate way to break the news to… whoever it was at the door. The person at the door is neither redheaded nor male, as she expected. In fact, she's… blond.

"Lavender?"

"Merlin, Hermione," Lavender exclaims before pushing her way through the door. "Do you have any idea what an attack I almost had this morning while reading the _Prophet_? You're lucky Ron never reads the society pages, he wouldn't even have noticed until I shrieked at the pictures…"

Lavender stops midsentence and gawks at her, only finally aware of her rather disheveled state and lack of proper attire. And knowing her to be an organized person even at 9 in the morning from many years of sharing dorm rooms, Lavender gives a gasp and runs back toward the door while looking around frantically.

"Are you serious? He's _here_? Right now?" Lavender whispers furiously, rushing to put her shoes back on. "Hermione Jean Granger, I swear to all that is magical and holy, I do _not_ want to be in your shoes right now, no matter how edible Draco Malfoy might have been during school."

"_Edible_? Did you just compare Draco to food?"

"Not the point! Listen, I just came here to tell you that Ron knows, and I figured you'd rather that I tell you instead of the raving lunatic that is currently my husband that you're both invited for the brunch this Sunday. He's promised to keep away from Malfoy at all times until he hears an explanation with the rest of the family," babbles Lavender while cursing at her uncooperative shoe. "Although, he did want me to tell you that if he sees any sign at all of you being Imperiused he won't go through Auror procedures at all before he murders the bloke."

"With the rest of the family? Hang on, I can't bring Draco to the Burrow! Lavender –"

"See you this Sunday, then! Like I said, wouldn't want to be in your shoes, love."

* * *

><p>"I always did suspect that Weasley lives in a hovel, but really…"<p>

"Draco, this is _really_ not the time."

He watches her bite her lip nervously, and turns back to assess what she calls her second home. If he felt like being honest, he'd have to say he's fairly nervous too – after all, this house harbors the archenemies of his predecessors, men who certainly wouldn't hesitate to set his telltale Malfoy hair on fire and call it a joke. And the fact that it's full of men who are close to Hermione… well. Married men, except for that elusive Charlie Weasley he hears about from Hermione occasionally when she's reminiscing about some happy family memory or another. He's heard more about the Weasleys than about her actual parents, the cause of which can lie still for another day and another discussion. It's times like that that he has those pangs he so frequently felt during his visits to Everett's house – the constant wondering of what may have been in another lifetime had he not been born a Malfoy. He's still jealous of Ron Weasley, although he'd rather eat a blast-ended skrewt rather than admit that to his face.

"Right, then," she says with a deep sigh, the now-familiar glint of determination lighting her eyes. "Ready?"

"Never," he mutters, but follows her toward the door anyway.

The door flies open before Hermione even has a chance to ring the bell, and the couple is faced with the bedeviled beauty that is Fleur, haughtily scanning Draco from head to foot while standing in a flower apron that in no way matches the expression on her face.

"Ze boy looks different from back then, 'Ermione," says the eldest Weasley daughter-in-law, her dark blue eyes narrowing.

"Hello to you too, Fleur," Hermione greets from beside him, her voice deceptively light. "And of course he should look different, since he's no longer a boy."

"Good to see you again, Mademoiselle Delacour," he says politely. After all, the woman wasn't entirely a Weasley. "Or rather, Madame Weasley. Congratulations on your baby."

"Merci, monsieur," responds Fleur, but the aloof demeanor is still present when she steps back and lets them both in.

The Burrow, from how Hermione has described it, seems far too quiet to seem normal. He can feel Hermione tensing next to him, obviously thinking the silence eerie as well. He suspects, rightly, that this is not how it normally is on a Sunday morning in the Weasley household. Following Fleur through cramped hallways that Malfoy Manor would've put to shame, he feels Hermione's small hand searching for his, so he grasps her slender fingers and gives them a squeeze of support. But secretly, he thinks he needs her support more than she needs his – if they try to hex anyone, it'll be him – but again, he'd rather ride a blasted hippogriff before he admits that to her, or show his creeping fear before the coven of redheads now before him.

And it was indeed a coven, since he counts all eight of the Weasleys, plus the five partners of Weasleys. He supposes he should thank god for the small things, and is glad to find no redheaded babies, at least. The family probably thought that the following conversation wouldn't be appropriate for children's ears. He meets Potter's eyes foremost – the green eyes harden briefly, but then look almost… regretful?

"Well," murmurs the Weasley with a faint scar running down his face, standing against the fireplace and soon joined by his wife. "I never thought I'd see a Malfoy standing in our home."

Hermione's grip tightens, so he keeps up his stoic outward appearance and swipes his thumb across her knuckles to calm her.

"Well, a lot's changed since you thought that last, hasn't it, Bill?" Hermione asks, and this time, he can hear the nervousness in her question. "Good morning to all of you. Are none of you going to say hello?"

"Good morning to you too, dear," says the matronly woman in the middle of the crowd, someone he recognizes from brief encounters on Platform 9 ¾. Mrs. Weasley pauses briefly, and her eyes land on him. "And… good morning to you too, Mr. Malfoy."

Taken aback by the semi-cordial greeting, he glances at Hermione before plastering on his best diplomatic face. He suddenly remembers that this rather plump woman is the one who managed to end his mad aunt, and a brief chill runs down his spine despite her somewhat friendly face.

"Long time no see, Mr. Weasley, Mrs. Weasley," is all he can manage before the burning eyes of Ron Weasley bore into the side of his face.

He notes the most relevant member of the Golden Trio, but doesn't acknowledge him any more than he has to. Thankfully, the blustering idiot of his childhood seems to have been outgrown and the man stays silent, but glowering. He sees Lavender Brown, no, Weasley, pat Ron Weasley on the shoulder in the corner of his eyes.

"Mum, this is ridiculous. Why're we standing here like a bloody tribunal and exchanging greetings, for Merlin's sake? If we're going to threaten him, we might as well get it over with," shouts one of the Weasley sons. He thinks for a moment that it might be Charlie Weasley, but then realizes that it's one of the twins – he looks much older and more careworn than he remembers. George, he recalls. He's not the prankster he remembers from his first years in Hogwarts.

"George, do shut up," says Percy Weasley. At least he's a somewhat familiar face. "No one is going to threaten anyone. Mr. Malfoy, I apologize for my brother's behavior."

The lone Weasley daughter bursts up from her seat, her temper matching her blazing hair.

"No, I _am_ going to threaten this git, because obviously he doesn't seem to remember all the years he put our Hermione through hell and is standing there like… like…"

"Ginny," murmurs Potter, dragging his reluctant wife back down.

"Thank you for the invite, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley," he says before another person decides to get up and trouble themselves for something he already knows and feels guilty for every single moment. "But I'm not sure why I'm here, to be honest. I understand your family's concerns about me, and I admit that most of them are justified, but in the end I can't do much about them."

"Ah, yes, well," Mr. Weasley clears his throat, looking around at his children, each with a varying degree of emotion on his or her face. "We had quite a surprise this week when the article in the _Prophet_ came out. We never expected… Nonetheless, Hermione's made her choice, and we know better than anyone that no one can really change her mind once she's set on it."

Mr. Weasley gives Hermione a kindly smile, to which she looks stunned. Then she nods, and the corners of her eyes crinkle into a smile that he's relieved to see.

"I've heard quite positive things about you from the Minister, and many others in the Ministry that have had the chance to work with you since you came back from the Muggle world, including Percy," continues Mr. Weasley, shushing Ginny and George with a wave of his hand and a stern look. "And as you can see, Hermione has quite a large family behind her. So I trust that you'll do nothing to harm her… am I right?"

Now it's his turn to be surprised. The careful words from Arthur Weasley are not words of support, but at least words of acceptance and a small amount of trust. And he realizes that indeed, she does have quite a large family – one that cares for her, even as he resents those individuals in the room that can't let go of their old prejudices. Perhaps he should even be jealous of Hermione.

"I'll do my best, sir," he says as a response. He legitimately feels like the boyfriend who's come to visit his girlfriend's family for the first time, asking for permission to court their daughter.

"That's all we can ask for, I suppose," says Mrs. Weasley at last, getting up from her own seat. "Now then, aren't we all hungry? The food's getting cold, I'm sure. Ron will show you to the dining room, Mr. Malfoy."

"Please, call me Draco," he hears himself say, much to his bewilderment as it is to the people in the room.

He suddenly feels like he's escaped from his own body. As much as Bill Weasley never imagined a Malfoy in his house, he's never imagined himself in the Weasley home, about to have a meal with them as the newest member of their crowded family. He could almost say it's a welcome respite from the tense meals at the Manor, but thinks he might as well retract that opinion when the Weasel himself finally gets a hold of him just outside the dining room.

"You'll forever be a bastard and a ferret to me, Malfoy," whispers Ron Weasley, his face dark but controlled.

"Wouldn't have it any other way, Weasel," he hisses back, making sure Hermione can't hear him.

Weasley whirls around to face away from him, his hand on the doorknob. He has to strain to hear what Weasley says next, but what he hears stops him and wipes the disdain from his face.

"But you better not be one to her, do you hear me?" Weasley opens the door and walks in, only then turning around again to stare at him straight in the eyes. "You make her happy. And hell if I'm going to get in her way of that."

What can he even say to that? He thinks back to what Hermione had said about the post-war Ron Weasley, and thinks with a faint grin that she might be right.

"Will do."

* * *

><p><strong>Well, at least it was long to compensate for the fact that my update was late. Sorry if the confrontation wasn't quite as climactic if that's what you were expecting. But I don't think any of the Weasleys are the type to grudge Hermione true happiness, if that's what she so obviously has. <strong>

**Review!**


	28. A Little Closer, A Little Farther

**So this is a rewrite of the missing Chapter 28 (which still makes me really upset, by the way), recalled to the best of my abilities. But I replaced a scene in here that I think is a good idea. I'll update this before I upload a new chapter!**

**Like I said before, withhold some disbelief with this chapter. If Harry keeps having visions of his parents' death, who's to say Teddy can't remember what he did when he was a baby?**

**JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. I own _Two Boxes of Memories_.**

* * *

><p>She keeps waiting for someone to throw something. Or for someone to whip out a wand, or start screaming at the man currently seated next to her. She's tense during the entire meal, and though Molly's cooking is superb as usual, she can barely taste the food. She's dimly aware of Arthur and Molly asking Draco polite questions about his job, which he answers just as politely. When so many things are taboo to speak about, she supposes it's one of the few topics that won't make anyone uncomfortable. The enlarged wooden table is like one meant for a banquet, with so many redheads and all of their respective partners present. Her best friends are sitting across from her, one silently shoveling food into his mouth and conversing with his brothers and wife, the other torn between trying to listen and trying to not listen.<p>

"How was it living in the Muggle world? I keep meaning to quit my job and get a flat in Muggle Ireland to move closer to the Irish reservation, but I don't know where to start," says Charlie, filling an awkward silence filled with the noises of the toddlers and cutlery around the table.

"I was an editor for a publishing company. It's not bad. I liked it, rather," says Draco in response, methodically slicing into his steak.

"You worked in Muggle literature? I didn't know," pipes in Arthur, now genuinely interested. She almost wants to laugh when Molly and Ginny simultaneously roll their eyes at Arthur's incorrigible enthusiasm, but she's too stiff to actually do so. "I tried reading a few novels, but I could never get the full references."

"Neither could I, in the beginning. I think it's easier if you start with period pieces, maybe back in Victorian times. Those are more similar to what we have in the wizarding world. Fantasy books are fairly easy as well, but of course, they're wrong most of the time…"

She does actually manage a smile at Draco's wry comment. She recalls talking about how much Tolkien actually ended up revealing to the Muggles with Lord of the Rings and his wildly imaginative portrayals of elves ('I do _not_ look like Legolas, Hermione,' Draco had said, exasperated). Draco gives her a small quirk of his lips that he knows only she will be able to read from his face.

"I tried to read a Muggle economics book once. I failed miserably, of course – made me thank Merlin that I was a curse-breaker and not a goblin. I don't know how Gringotts manages to get the exchange rate with Muggles right, considering it's always fluctuating," joins Bill, giving her a cheeky wink across the table when she shoots him and Charlie a grateful look.

"They don't," says Arthur, waving his fork in the air. "I talked to someone in the Ministry who's in charge of that once, and he told me that they estimate every time. You know, add a sickle today, subtract five knuts tomorrow."

"Well, that doesn't bode well for my plans. I was planning to work on a collaboration project to bring in Muggle technology so that it works in the magical world, but if the exchange system is faulty…" Draco shakes his head, piercing a buttered asparagus with his fork.

Draco's words startle Ron, who raises his head from his plate to look at Hermione straight in the eyes. She's disconcerted to see that she can't actually tell what those blue eyes are thinking, whereas she always used to be able to tell Ron's thought process in the past. Even Ginny raises her eyebrows in surprise at Draco's idea, not to mention Harry. Harry gives her a confused look, which melts into a slightly apologetic expression that is so characteristic of him. Ron goes back to his plate.

"With who? Where? Is it underway already?" George nearly shouts with his mouth full, alarming little Freddy on his lap.

Freddy starts to cry on his father's knees, big tears welling in his eyes and his fat baby hand trying to grab George's shirt. Victoire, in a high chair, starts to cry too as Freddy's wails get louder. Teddy, so mature for his six years, turns to a teary Victoire and morphs his nose into that of a pig's, saying 'oink!' and snorting loudly. Victoire hiccups once, then reaches out to squeeze Teddy's nose with a tinkling giggle.

George repeats his question to Draco as Angelina coos at her son, lifting him from George's lap into her own. But Draco is looking at the older children, fixated on something with a petrified expression. She has to tap his thigh beneath the table to get him to pay attention.

"Oh, it's uh, a Swedish inventor. He's looking for more investors to expand his distribution market and get more capital for the actual products. I can get you in contact with him if you'd like."

She's happier at the way this conversation is flowing, but her eyes are on Teddy and Victoire, searching for whatever made him pause for so long. He and Victoire are still making pig noises, laughing at each other's antics, when her eyes land on Teddy's hair turning platinum blond around the tips. She remembers the time when she was at this exact table, with Teddy next to her, flipping through eye colors until he matched the exact shade of the irises of the man sitting at her side. Teddy reminds her again how surreal this is, because that time she couldn't have imagined that Draco would be here with her at all. When the toddler turns in his seat and looks straight at her, her heart seems to stop – Teddy's eyes flicker to Draco, and instantly looks back at her with the same eyes, grinning as if to say he knew all along who Draco is.

By the end of the meal, she thinks this isn't such a bad way to start. She was expecting much worse, to be honest, and Arthur and Molly's hospitality does so much to make her feel better. Before they leave, Draco scribbles a phone number (yes, a Muggle phone number) on a scrap of paper and hands it to George, who looks bewildered but happy at the object in his hand. Charlie seems genuinely interested in Draco's experiences in the Muggle world, Bill and Percy are civil and courteous, and Arthur is smiling by the end to have someone to whom he can ask questions about Muggle technology. Neither Ginny nor Ron has exploded into one of their tempers, and she can tell Harry sort of regrets the way that he accused Draco in the Leaky the first time they met since the exile.

No, it's not a bad way to start in the least.

Right as she finishes buttoning her coat, Molly hugs her farewell and leans back to scan her from head to toe. Molly's expression is such a motherly one that she can't help but smile back at the Weasley matriarch, of infinite wisdom and superhuman love that only an adoring parent can possess. It's moments like these that she's thankful to still have a family, no matter the one she lost.

"He'll be good to you, I think," whispers Molly. "He's got a different light in his eyes."

"I know," she replies, squeezing Molly's veined hand. "Thank you."

"Oh, sweetheart. It's time we all moved on, isn't it?" says Molly, with what looks suspiciously like tears welling in her eyes. "I'm sure even Fred won't grudge you your happiness, my dear."

And with that, she almost cries herself.

* * *

><p>It would annoy him if it were anyone but her. As if sensing his discomfort, she only follows the outline of the pink scar running down his chest with her fingertips, rather than graze down it like a kneazle that had the curiosity of a cheese grater.<p>

"Did it hurt?" she asks into his collarbone, faint breaths more than actual words.

"It must've at the time. But I passed out from the pain, so I wouldn't know."

"He really was sorry afterward, you know. He didn't know what _sectumsempra_ would do when he used it on you."

"I'm sure he was," he replies, failing to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

She sighs, raising her upper body slightly to look down at him lying comfortably on the right side of her bed. He gives her what he hopes looks like a conciliatory expression, and pulls her back down to drape her arm across his upper body. She lets him do so, settling back down into the nook between his shoulder and head.

She fits perfectly, he thinks. And he thinks back to the past couple of months of blissful forgetfulness, and knows that he hasn't had a single nightmare in her bed. But sometimes, especially in moments like this, he feels a cresting wave of disbelief. A quaking fear grips him that tomorrow, this will all turn out to be a dream – and the fear turns into panic, his heart beats faster, and his breath runs shallow –

No. He takes a deeper mental breath, and tries to hide his torrential emotions. Instead, he reaches out with a careful, reverent hand and presses his palm against her warm back. She is here, she hasn't run away, and she…

"Did she like it?" she asks abruptly.

His mind turns blank like the newly fallen patch of snow outside.

"What?"

"Narcissa. Did she like her gift?"

Ah.

"Of course she did. I told you she would."

She shrugs. Her hair rustles on the pillow, and he marvels at how soft it is despite his having thought it frizzy for the better part of a decade.

"How is she? I haven't seen her in a while…"

He can feel the tension in her shoulders regardless of her supposed nonchalance. His heart starts thudding again, and he rather hopes that she can't feel it since she's lying across his right side. He tries to think hard about whether there might be some secret meaning in her words, and curses his slow male brain for its stupidity.

"Do you… do you want to see her?" he asks.

The question is a rather loaded one, he knows. Seeing his mother in the current state of affairs is very, very different from how they used to meet during his exile. Did she… want to meet his parents? But Lucius…?

His mind coasts into a dark doubt, and the choking feeling returns as he thinks how this might be going a little too fast, or maybe completely out of his control. And speaking of his father, there's nothing he can do about that particular man. When all he has left, finally, is control over his own life, the last thing he wants to think about is how Lucius will receive Hermione. The mental panic keeps overtaking him tonight, and she'll never even know how helpless he feels around her when things are like this – his unworthiness, self-reproach, and all the ugly things that he wants to leave behind, at least in her bed, keeps haunting him like an unfailing shadow.

"Well. Maybe eventually," she whispers into the night, the pale light of the lampshade growing eerie in the quiet house.

"_Mother_ will be glad to see you," he grates out, biting his tongue over the emphasis on only one of his parents.

She sighs. He lets her turn to her side away from him, and suddenly he can hear the tiredness in her voice that he can't understand.

"You can't keep running from him. He's your father."

He doesn't answer for a long time. But he can hear the ire, the bitterness in his own voice when he does.

"I'm not running. There's no changing him, Hermione. There's no point."

He has to strain his ears to hear her quiet plea, spoken almost to herself than him.

"But I keep hoping."

* * *

><p><strong>Sorry to end it on such a sad note. But relationships aren't peachy all the time, eh?<strong>


	29. The Eye Before the Storm

**Reviews are the BEST! Thanks to Divess and hastur42 for their continued support, and love-them-all10, Skiffle-Rose, zenith16, m-rj12, and Sises for the new review.**

**And thanks to the new subscribers: sheeplorox, Regina-Mai, Dhelana Joie, and grysn.**

**We will start with Draco this chapter, only because I feel like it.**

**I own nothing but the plot of this story.**

* * *

><p>He'd been wondering when and how this would happen. He's been walking on thin ice for a month now, feeling the ever-chilled atmosphere of the Manor grow colder and sharper with the unseen tug-of-war between father and son. He's resolutely avoided talking about her with Lucius – in fact, he's just avoided his father in general. He spends his hours shut in his room or at her flat, traverses the massive floors of his ancestral home to the garden to apparate rather than use the Floo, and takes his meals with his mother in his study when he's forced to eat at home.<p>

It pains Narcissa, he knows, and frankly it's irritating to act like a stranger at his own home – but he keeps hoping, just maybe, that his father's anger is a passing thing and if given time, he will understand. It's wishful thinking; but considering that Lucius has no choice, really, he hopes anyway. After all, the man has no control over his own assets and he can't go out and seek out Hermione to hex her. He remembers the threat to disown him, of course, but he knows that's near impossible – even if he did, it's not likely that the Ministry will take the keys to the Malfoy vault from the son and give them back to the father.

He's got him cornered, essentially. He wonders if he should feel guilty about it, but if he did, then he would've been sorted into the wrong house. He feels a slight twinge of wry satisfaction in that had it been anyone else he'd so meticulously pushed to the edge of a cliff, his father probably would've praised him. It's a mix of Slytherin selfishness and a tinge of Gryffindor bravery (and perhaps even that infamous sense of right and wrong) that eggs him on to defy his upbringing and face his father head on.

Well, sort of.

But when it happens, it happens with a surprising move from Lucius.

He knocks on the door of his son's room.

The son stands dumbfounded at the visit, mostly because his imperious father has never deigned himself to descend upon his room. He rapidly runs through his endless scenarios for this conversation, and makes sure that he doesn't flick his eyes toward his pocket or touch it subconsciously, lest his father suspect that he intends to defend himself with his wand if need be. He finds himself calmer than he would've thought; and so, betraying nothing but the chilled demeanor that mirrors that of his father, he steps back from the door in a silent gesture of welcome.

His father glances inside, certain disdain flashing across his angular face. He drags his eyes back to those of his son, and with that piercing gaze in place, opens his mouth to speak his ultimatum.

At least, that's what the son expects to hear.

"Bring her for dinner," says Lucius Malfoy coolly, noting the surprise that lights his son's face. "Or in this new world, do you intend to tell me you've gotten married overnight through the front page of the _Daily_ _Prophet_ as well?"

He can't respond. All words are stuck in his throat like cloth jammed down his esophagus, and he thinks he must have misheard but Lucius' clear, sharp tone echoes in his head again and again. His father's lip curls when he fails to answer, and it's only when Lucius turns away from the door that he can find the voice to speak.

"You can't hurt her."

There's a strange irony in that those are his first words, but he doesn't have time to ponder it right now. His hands are clammy, and he's itching to take out his wand for no other reason than to have it in his hand, to feel the solid wood in his palm and reassure himself of his strength.

"Somehow, I doubt she'll let me," drawls Lucius, not even bothering to turn back to spit the words in his son's face. "As for you…"

"Never again," he bites back in response, hating that his voice quivers with rage while his father is his ever unflappable self. "Whether it's Aunt Bella or you, no one will hurt her ever again. Never again in this house, and never in front of me."

There is silence. It's a cold, shivering silence, even with the heat that threatens to overwhelm him from within. Just once, he wishes he could punch his father in the face, if only to relieve the pressure that is building in his tightly clenched fist.

"The drawing room," says his father. "It was for her, that day."

"And also for myself."

"I've been a fool," breathes out Lucius Malfoy, his voice tinged with a weariness that the son is startled to hear, although he dimly remembers hearing the same aged tone when he first came back. "I should've done everything in my power to prevent you from going to that blasted Muggle world."

"There would've been nothing you could do."

Lucius turns around at last and faces his son. His grey eyes are stormy, and a twisted sneer overtakes his face with his next words.

"Yes, because what can a blighted, damned Death Eater do against the almighty Hermione Granger?"

He realizes that despite the angered face, Lucius' shoulders are slumped. The bitterness of his tone betrays the utter helplessness his father feels, and the stark lines on his face tell him of his father's age. He feels the anger seep out of him like a slow stream.

"I'm in the process of learning to forget. So is she, or she wouldn't even speak to me. Why can't you do the same? It's not easy, I know that firsthand, but…"

"Draco," interrupts Lucius. "The times that you want to remember and forget are different from mine."

"Is that what you want? To hold onto whatever fleeting glory you felt under a maniac, and forget all the moments you could have in the future if you just _tried_?"

Lucius doesn't respond. He coolly breezes out of the room, all traces of anger or bitterness forgotten. He is left in the room, assailed with thoughts that he can't quite gather and fighting the crushing feeling in his chest.

He replays his father's last words in his head, and can't help but think that he's seen those words somewhere before.

* * *

><p>She rarely, if ever, takes a day off from work. But this really did warrant a full day of preparation, and she's determined to plough through the day and make the best of that evening as much as possible. But now that she's in her flat by herself, she doesn't particularly know how to go about doing this.<p>

"Are you busy tonight?" he'd asked nonchalantly during breakfast that morning, and she'd felt a little thrill as she always does at the prelude to a dinner together.

"I was planning to go see if Ron and Lavender wanted to have dinner. They don't trust me with cooking, but there's a pretty good restaurant by Hogsmeade that opened recently."

She'd hoped that he might get the hint and offer to come along, but that hope vanished when she noticed that he was mechanically shoveling spoonfuls of her cereal into his mouth. She glanced at the cupboard to see if his usual cereal was missing, and then turned back to her lover with a question in her eyes.

"Could you cancel it?" he'd asked, and the fluttery feeling in her stomach had turned into a creeping dread at his robotic tone.

"I didn't make the plans yet, so there's nothing to cancel."

"All right then."

They'd sat in silence at the table for a while, the only sounds coming from his spoon hitting the milk and scooping out bits of cereal determinedly.

"Draco," she said at last, because by that point they knew each other too well to drag it on any longer.

"Come to the Manor for dinner. You wanted to see Mother, didn't you?"

"The Manor?" she'd said under her breath, disbelief coloring her face.

She hadn't asked the obvious question. In fact, she'd asked no questions. She'd agreed first, worried later, and is now stuck contemplating how to go about not making a fool of herself or creating a scene.

Merlin, she needed Ginny.

She considered asking Harry for help, but his instinct to protect her from the toothless tiger that is Lucius Malfoy would be far too strong for him to even let her go. Ron would be more or less the same, and neither of her boys was still entirely comfortable with the fact that she was dating one of their childhood archenemies. Although, Lavender _did_ pointedly ask about how Draco was doing the last time they all saw each other for lunch, sending a scathing glare in her husband's direction.

She needs someone to vent and whine to, who would take practical measures and make sure that she look and feel her best before the impending doom. It's a job that's been reserved for Ginny since her fourth year, when she'd confided in Ginny that Viktor Krum was indeed her date to the ball and the redhead instantly took charge to smooth out everything from her nerves to her hair. Pansy had been an enormous support during this uncomfortable phase with Ginny, but Pansy just wouldn't understand her problems about this dinner as Ginny could, as a fellow Gryffindor and someone who'd been manipulated and hurt by Lucius Malfoy.

She considers and reconsiders, but in the end picks up a clump of Floo powder next to her fireplace and throws it in the flame before she can think further. She counts the seconds until Ginny's familiar face pops in the fireplace, and can't help but be relieved that she shows up at all.

"Hermione," begins Ginny, confused. "Why aren't you at work?"

"Well good morning to you too, Gin," she says drily in response.

"Morning. But did something happen? Is it Malfoy?" questions Ginny, her head turning this way and that as an incorporeal form in the fire before her alarmed expression turns into a scowl. "I told you this is a mistake… Merlin, he's not _there_, is he?"

"No, no, he's not, but it does have to do with him."

She fiddles with the hem of her shirt for a second, while Ginny patiently waits for her. Finally, Ginny sighs audibly.

"Listen, forget whatever vile shite I've said to you recently. I'm hoping that you'll say something sensible like you've finally decided to break up with him, but I don't think it's bloody likely that that's the case. So out with it, Hermione. If the bugger did anything to you, I swear to all that is magical that I will go and…"

"Ginny, Ginny," she stops the redhead's rant before it goes any further. She's actually quite thankful that Ginny seems rather firmly on her side, despite whatever upset feelings she's harbored over her relationship with Draco.

"That's not it. He… well, I'm seeing his parents today. For dinner. At the Manor."

Ginny's face goes stone still. For a moment, she suspects that the Floo connection is lost or frozen like Muggle television was wont to do, but several tense seconds later, Ginny shakes her head vigorously as if to clear her brain and stares straight at her.

"I'm coming through, Hermione," she says at last, her eyebrows furrowed in what seems more like concentration than anger.

Ginny shakes off the soot from the fireplace, and looks intently at her friend and former flatmate. She feels a little uncomfortable under Ginny's scrutinizing gaze, and just as she's about to offer biscuits and tea, Ginny plops down straight onto the floor with a dazed expression.

"It's really that serious? You and Malfoy?" asks Ginny in a whisper. "But his _parents_? Are you mental? You're really going to set foot in that house?"

"I did it before, Gin. The garden party went well, remember?"

"Yes, and Lucius Malfoy definitely ignored you, even when you weren't anyone of importance to his only son. He's going to try and murder you, Hermione. You can't possibly go."

"I have to. I have to, sooner or later. You know, maybe it's a good thing. Maybe if he gets used to the idea…"

"Bloody hell," swears Ginny. "You do realize what you're saying? Are you thinking… are you thinking of _marrying_ Draco Malfoy?"

It's her turn to freeze. Marry? The thought had honestly never crossed her mind – it was hard enough trying to keep their relationship normal as possible (while hiding as much as possible) from day to day. But _marry_? She doesn't know what to say anymore; one part of her, the sensible, brainy part, tells her it's been less than half a year, while the other part of her tells her he's revealed more to her than to anyone else, even his own parents. She recalls his fingers lazily dancing along her locks of hair.

And she suddenly realizes that she wouldn't mind waking up to that every morning, and be sure that she would go to sleep at his side every night.

The thought scares and excites her, but right now she can't exactly think rationally.

"I'm not… It's too early. I don't think…"

"Hermione, if a pureblood family like Malfoy's sort invited their only son's girlfriend to dinner, it means they're seriously examining you as their future daughter-in-law," says Ginny sharply.

She sees her eyes are full of concern before anger, and that comforts her more than Ginny knows.

"I… I didn't know he was this serious about you. I thought… well, you know, it's in his family history to use and discard people for political purposes, so…" Ginny trails off, her face becoming a little red. "I suppose I should say I'm sorry. But I can't just yet. I have too good of a memory for that."

"I understand," answers Hermione softly. "It's all right."

Ginny looks up, her lips drawn in a worried line and her eyes turned down at the corners.

"Are you sure? You're sure he's the one?" whispers Ginny, with what looks suspiciously like tears gathering in her eyes.

"I think he's getting there," she says, a small smile at her lips. "So I'd better try and make the best of this, don't you think? There's no way it'll go _well_, all things considered, but."

Ginny closes her eyes, but the tears don't fall. When she opens them again, the brown eyes are all business – and for a second, the familiar sight that usually foreshadowed a day of intense beautifying (much to her dismay) scares her like it used to. Then she realizes that everything is _right_ again, as much as it can be for the moment, and Ginny is here for her.

"For every battle, there is a master tactician behind it," says Ginny, her eyes glinting determinedly. "And this, my friend, is about to be a battle of epic proportions. Lucius Malfoy won't know what hit him."


	30. Playing the Game

**Thanks to the new fans of my story: a-stranger-angel, jellobellybean, racegurl87, ultra-swimgurl, Clara Barton, Miss Bear, Harry Potter you're my hero, amartin0507, a1lone1bird1lucia, nicebrass2662, polly509, sarasloan, JenP10, sugarsweet82, and Amelia Raihan.**

**And of course, the reviewers: Melanie, Divess, hastur42, and Calimocho.**

**REVIEW! Best way to get me writing! I own nothing but the plot of this story, and have 30th chapter!**

* * *

><p>And she leaves him absolutely speechless. Really, it's Ginny's masterful touch that stuns and awes him into utter silence, but it's her he can't tear his eyes away from when she comes to stand at his side in front of her fireplace. He's forgotten all about the dinner at this point – the ugly sinking feeling that's stayed with him all day passes like a wisp of forgotten wind and all he can do is stare at the absolutely godly figure that is Hermione Granger. He even forgets about the fact that Ginny Potter is literally standing in the same room, looking far too pleased for his liking.<p>

He doesn't know who in the world could've possibly thought that Hermione Granger is not beautiful. He feels a pang of guilt, suddenly recalling all the times he'd called her a beaver, but the smiling woman dazzles and confounds his male brain.

"Well?" asks Ginny impatiently from the side. "Talk, Malfoy, or I'll think you've lost your tongue. Or maybe you should shut your mouth first?"

"Stop it, Gin," admonishes Hermione, a small wrinkle between her eyebrows. "But Draco, what do you think?"

"I think we're wasting this on Lucius Malfoy, if you ask me. But I'll be shot to hell if Hermione doesn't completely make him forget about every pureblood girl out there in Britain," scoffs Ginny, with a tinge of real pride in her voice.

"For once, I have to agree with Potter on this," he chokes out, trying his hardest not to stammer. He's obviously stared a little too long than is polite, but it's his girlfriend and if anyone has the right to look, it's him.

Bugger, when had he gotten so possessive? He shakes the feeling away, and takes Hermione's hand in his. She makes it so hard for him to keep in control, although that's about the only thing left to him nowadays. Control. That and her, of course, but he can't own her, ever. Even to this day, he wouldn't be surprised if all of this just turns out to be a dream.

"You look absolutely stunning," he whispers, aware that a smile has taken over his face.

"It's not just the looks, trust me," she stage whispers back, a wide grin mirrored on her face. "Ginny drilled me in on every pureblood custom she can think of."

He has half a mind to retort that a Weasley can hardly be expected to know the right etiquette, but holds his tongue out of propriety for the person who managed to transform his sensible beauty into a queen. He coughs, and glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece, holds out his arm to her. She takes it, glowing with what seems like an even mixture of confidence and uncertainty, looking at him again for a last reassuring glance and waving to Ginny Potter with a bright smile. The slight tremble in her hand gives her nervousness away.

"If nothing else," he reminds her as they step into the fireplace together, with her picking up the edge of her skirt to make sure no ashes cloud the hem. "Remember that Mother and I are firmly on your side."

"Narcissa?" she asks, hesitant.

He drops the Floo powder at their feet, and the green flames come to life.

"Yes," he responds. "For this, she's entirely for you."

"Bring her back in one piece, do you hear me, Malfoy?" yells Ginny Potter over the roar of the flames. "Or you'll see that my old Bat-Bogey hexes have _nothing_ on my new ones."

"I'll do my damned best, Potter," he says flippantly, waving off her glares with a wave of his hand. "Malfoy Manor!"

Even through the tight space and time that is the Floo network, he can feel her grip on his arm. Before he can even offer some comfort, time spits them back out in the familiar and painfully unfamiliar place that is his home. Déjà vu, he thinks, as he steps out of the fireplace to see his parents standing in the very same guest Floo room that he arrived in five years ago. But this time, he's ready for his mother's uncharacteristic gestures and his father's scorn. There are far too important things at stake here for him to care about the little things.

"Mrs. Malfoy," says Hermione, almost timid and thoroughly unlike her normal self.

Her eyes are a little too wide, he thinks. He catches a brief glimpse of pure fear in her eyes when they take in the surroundings, and he knows she's thinking back to the last time she was in this house, with these people. And suddenly, he feels far too cruel, far too insensitive, and far too guilty.

"Miss Granger," is his mother's greeting, and he fervently hopes that Hermione can see the warmth in his mother's eyes, belied by the formal tone of her voice. "It's been quite a while."

"I hope you've been well," replies Hermione mechanically; he inwardly winces at the painfully hackneyed thread of conversation.

He steals a look at the man he's been so frequently compared to. Lucius' facial lines haven't budged an inch, but he stonily stares at Hermione without an expression. That is precisely the face he abhors the most – the lack of emotion used to forebode something worse when he was a child, whether it was days of unexplained absences from the Manor or unsavory men frequenting his father's rooms. Days of silence, days of meals with just his mother, meals filled with ominous signs and fear that he pushed into the tips of his fork instead of verbalizing.

He's afraid now – but he'd promised himself that he would do this one thing for himself and for her. He would hold on and show a brave face, never be intimidated, and be there for Hermione and his mother.

"Doesn't she look great, Mother?" he says at last, tearing his eyes away from his father and facing his mother with a proud grin. "I thought she looked fantastic at the garden party, but…"

His mother is surprised at his upbeat tone, and the reference to the party. He can tell she wants to sneak a look at Lucius, but she schools her face into a pleasant mask and hides the nervousness.

"I'm glad you think that this is an occasion to look your best… Miss Granger," drawls a voice that could, and had, brought so many shudders to his spine. "Although, do excuse me for not looking my particular best. It's not one of those occasions, for me."

Hermione flushes, but keeps the muscles of her face still. He wants to seek out her hand, but his father's eyes are on squarely on them.

"It's all right, Mr. Malfoy. You're right, it's more of an occasion where I should try and impress you, not vice versa," says Hermione in a deceptively light voice. He internally pumps a fist in the air for his brave little warrior.

* * *

><p>"Impress me? That's hardly necessary. Surely you've… conquered enough people in your life thus far without needing to add me to the list," continues Lucius Malfoy in his mockingly serious drawl.<p>

She holds onto the tight string in her chest that threatens to break at any second. A quick look at Draco, and she can tell that he's proud of her composure in that quiet way of his. She turns her eyes back to the elder Malfoy, and knows he hasn't missed that brief flicker in her eyes.

"On the contrary, Mr. Malfoy, I think you're rather high up on that particular list," she retorts, still keeping her false voice. "That is, my first priority is to impress you, today if no other day."

Lucius Malfoy's eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. She's positive he heard the subtle jab in the first part of her reply – that she's already conquered him. Two can play at this game. She can't lie for her life, and she's sort of terrible at keeping her emotions closed, but if it's a verbal game he wants to play, then so be it.

Narcissa chooses that moment to move things along, and lands a cautionary hand on her arm with a smile of a hostess to lead her along into the corridor.

"I believe you'll find our dishes extraordinary. I never fail to compliment Tully on his cooking – it's sublime," says Narcissa quietly at her side. "Normally, we would offer you a drink before the dinner course, but I'm afraid Draco insisted upon a short dinner."

The two women walk together ahead of the men, heading down the stone corridor that looks familiar. But the glass doors at the end of the hall show nothing but the darkness outside, and Narcissa leads her past the garden entrance to a side hall that again opens into a wide open space. There's a blazing fireplace and a mahogany dining table in the middle, enough to sit a good ten people. She has no doubt that it can expand magically to seat 50, if needed, but is equally sure that it hasn't seen its full usage in a while. In fact, since Voldemort's occupation…

She catches herself before her thoughts lead her farther, and manages a smile at Narcissa as the woman indicates her seat with an elegant hand. Going forward, she notices with relief that Draco is sitting directly across from her, and she smoothes down her dress as she sits.

"How does your work go, Miss Granger?" asks Narcissa, ever the hostess. The question is uncannily like the one that Molly had asked Draco, she thinks. "Draco tells us that you now work for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

"It's not the most exciting work," she admits. "But there are days when I feel accomplished, and those make it worthwhile."

"Yes, bureaucracy is probably most unexciting after the brilliant five years you've had as a… what did they call you? _Project_ supervisor?" says Lucius Malfoy, venom dripping in the final words.

"It was bureaucracy then, as well," she replies tightly.

"Ah, but the idea was terribly innovative. I heard it was your own idea. Was it not?"

"Father," Draco says quietly at last, a warning wrapped in the single word.

"Yes, Draco?" Lucius replies, feigning ignorance.

"The mushrooms are getting cold on your plate."

At his words, she looks down at her own plate and finds the most beautifully arranged dish of mushrooms as appetizers. The dishes must be charmed, like in Hogwarts, she idly thinks to herself.

"It was, in fact, my idea. I'll take it as a compliment, Mr. Malfoy. It did change a lot of things, I think. And not the least in my own life."

She takes a significant glance at Draco, who pierces a mushroom with a fork and brings it to his mouth. She doesn't miss the half-smile quirked in the corners of his lips.

"I think we are all aware of how much change it brought, Miss Granger."

"Positive, I hope."

She places a tight smile on her face and looks at Lucius head-on, unwilling to back down from the challenge. She finally thinks she has an idea of the nature of the hatred Lucius Malfoy bears for her at the moment, from the things he brings up and digs his claws into. It's not the old kind, when he hated her simply for existing in his world, brandishing a wand. It's not the kind from the beginning of the war, when he hated her for being Harry Potter's best friend. No, he resents her because she changed his son, the one who he thought was incorruptible, and who he brought up as the paragon of supremacy, as a pureblood aristocrat. The other things are all lurking in a corner of the room, but the one on the table with an apple in its mouth was that. That his son was no longer his own, but hers.

And somewhere in her orphaned heart, she honestly pities the man who she never thought she could hold such feelings for.

What happened to your vow that you wouldn't be the wedge in their relationship, Hermione? she asks herself. Because she'd told herself that, in the brief moments when she brought up his father to Draco – it's one thing for her to not get along with the man, but another thing altogether for him to be so. But right now, she doubts her own resolve. Is it even possible for her to not drive them apart? Is it possible for Lucius Malfoy to change, and if he won't, for her to accept him as he is or for him to accept her, however begrudgingly?

Maybe it wasn't the time for subtle word games. This is certainly his game, and one that she could hold her own in, but not one that she prefers. She doesn't do games, as Ron had so eloquently said once so long ago. Of course, that was in relation to Quidditch, but still.

"Mr. Malfoy," she says, swallowing the last bite of her appetizer and directly looking at the man, who seems to be savoring his dish like he has all the time in the world.

"What was your intention in inviting me to dinner? I understand your objections... actually, I've never understood them and I never will. But regardless, there's nothing I can do about who I am or where we stood in the past."

Draco looks up immediately at her words. She exchanges the shortest of looks with him, and she realizes that her words sound almost identical to the ones he initially said to the Weasleys. She only hopes that the outcome will be similar.

The father, meanwhile, daubs at his lips with the silk napkin in his lap, and puts his fork down. She feels Narcissa holding her breath somewhere to her left, at the other end of the dining table.

"I'm surprised you haven't already leveled a wand to my head, if we're being this blunt, Miss Granger."

"I would never, Mr. Malfoy. I came here at your explicit invitation, and I trusted that you would play the part of an excellent host."

"And yet you ask me my intentions. My intentions are precisely as they seem. Play the role of a host, and have dinner with an individual that my son has so _publicly_ claimed to care for."

"It's not merely a claim, Father. You see that by now," says Draco, marble-like in his expression.

"I hoped to see for myself. And yes, I must unfortunately say that you are correct."

"Miss Granger, we recognize that you are the first woman Draco has so cared for, and so -" Narcissa jumps in, as composedly as possible.

"And so, we recognize that we may indeed lose our only son to you," interrupts Lucius. "As ill-fitted as you are to our family and we to your reputation."

"I don't care so much about my reputation, Mr. Malfoy. But I do hope you care enough about your family to at least give me a chance –"

"It's neither your place nor your right to lecture me about my family, Miss Granger," growls Lucius, voice clouding over with anger.

"Actually, it is, _Father_, since she so graciously brought your son back from his mental abyss and you from your sentence to Azkaban!" shouts Draco from his seat, his face red with barely contained anger.

Silence ensues. She can't find words to follow that, and she somehow feels endless bliss and endless heartbreak at his words.

"A good two-thirds of your family," whispers Draco into the silence. "And she's even managed to befriend Mother. So I'd say she has every right, don't you think?"

"Draco, reconsider. For the times you want to remember as part of this family –"

"And for all the times I want to forget," finishes Draco, almost dazed.

Suddenly, he drops the fork onto his plate with a clang.

"It was you," he murmurs. "The Remembrall. It wasn't Mother. It was you."

* * *

><p><strong>Dun Dun Dun... I'm writing the second part to this right now. And you probably noticed, but I can really only update every two weeks. :(<strong>


	31. A Drop of Ice Cream

**Thanks to: TeamSethGroupie17 for the PM – and for the shoutout on tumblr! You're awesome.**

**As usual, SO much love for my reviewers: Snowe, Prophecygirl48, acrogirl5, Nene428, Amelia Raihan, hastur42, Divess, and Calimocho.**

**And thanks to the newcomers: Prophecygirl48, smore4u1, Witch Tekamika, TeamSethGroupie17, LowWriter, SunMoonNeko, Nene428, TempestDashon, falula, charmarcus, julesrose, claireoth, Shiny Fan, voraciously, and lmr4893.**

**All right, so picking up right where we left off.**

* * *

><p>"Draco, I thought, for all your tribulations, and for all the good things to come once you endure those five years…" says Lucius Malfoy, his father and former Death Eater, in a fierce but trembling voice that doesn't belong in the man.<p>

"Those were some of my best years," the son chokes out, and he's swept back to when he first showed Everett the Remembrall. "All the times I want to remember have been in the past five years and a half. All the times I want to forget, but can't, are the times under that madman."

"Those weren't the memories I wanted you to have of me, Draco. Those were… those were the last things I wanted you to remember."

"You're lying. _You _were the reason I did any of it, all of it! For _you_ to get back into his good graces, and for _you_ to avoid being killed and maimed for nothing but his amusement!"

"I wanted you to remember your early years in Hogwarts, or even before. When nothing mattered to me other than you and your mother."

"Is that what you'd hoped? Is that what you wanted it to do?" he grinds out, now beyond anger or shock or any feelings at all. He just doesn't understand. "I'm sorry that it hasn't done its job. What it has done, though, is precisely the opposite of what you intended. It made me a braver man than I was, Father. So here I am, standing here with the one woman who deserves so much more than becoming a part of this disastrous family, with a best friend who knows nothing about the fact that I'm a war criminal, and a life that's going fairly well. And _all_, _without_, _you_. You don't know the first thing about me."

He sees the hurt that slashes across his father's face at his vicious words. He wishes he could hold himself back and become the man that he promised himself he would be, but his father still shakes him down to his bare-bones self, honest beyond his wants and out of control. He doesn't have the heart to look at Hermione just now, especially because he knows she didn't want this to happen.

She, even knowing everything that his father has done, still has the heart to forgive him. And he knows it. He just doesn't know if he himself has the heart to.

"Draco, please…" his mother pleads from the side, and from the corner of his eyes, he can tell that she's trying to come closer to him. He only then notices that he's standing.

"Don't touch me, Mother."

Narcissa freezes in her steps. The dinner hall is cold, despite the warm fire that roars in the lively fireplace behind Lucius Malfoy. The plates have since gone cold, the main dish lying forgotten on every fine porcelain surface.

He still doesn't have the heart to look at Hermione. He can't even look at his mother, from his shame and anger. But he's lost that one thing that he'd been so tightly holding onto, the thread of control – and now he can't rein in his own words.

"Before you decide to disown me, Father," he snarls, "I'll save you the trouble and leave first. You may burn anything I leave behind."

"Draco!" gasps his mother, horrified.

"Draco –" says Hermione at last, her voice a queer mix of caution and sadness that pours a damper on his anger. Nonetheless, he bites out a last remark.

"I won't leave her. Damn you, damn the world and its consequences. Damn it all."

He steadies his shaking hand, and whips out of the dining room into the hall lest he lose his mad confidence and turn to her for help in front of his father. His footsteps are muffled by the carpet underneath his shoes, but the dull thumps sound like a hammer to his ears. He doesn't notice her following him until her heels begin to click on the stone stairwell.

"Can I stay with you for a bit?" he asks, not pausing in his walk but his voice quiet. "You have a bedroom open, so if you don't mind me using it… I'll pay half of the rent."

"What's the pretense for? Just move into my room. I'll clear out closet space."

He has a hand on the knob of his door when he turns and sees her, rather forlorn in the moonlight that shines through the enormous windows high in the front wall. She stands on the balcony, looking as composed as she sounds. He wants to apologize for being the one to make the night worse, but opens the door instead and strides in with even steps that mask the swirl of feelings within him.

He pulls the trunk off of his shelf, but then thinks otherwise and starts ripping clothes off the hangers. She watches as he piles them onto his bed, silent and resolute as he works with an impassive face, one he's sure she can see through. He doesn't like being this transparent, but if not to her, who else?

He stares at the robes on his bed. He only just realizes that they're indeed all robes – not a single tee or jeans to be found. Not even a jumper. Which is odd, because he could swear he mostly lives in Muggle clothing.

"A lot of your stuff is already in my closet, actually," Hermione whispers, as if reading his baffled mind. "I guess you'll need a few robes, now that I think about it. You're going to work straight from my house, aren't you?"

Oh. So he'd stashed his Muggle clothes at her flat, then.

"…Probably thought he'd burn them," he mutters to himself, feeling more than a little foolish at the current turn of events.

The anger's burned itself away, and all that's left is a feeling of hollowness that doesn't feel so new. What does feel new, is the realization that so much of his life was based on what his father wanted – even now, when he keeps telling himself that he's independent and above it all.

Hiding clothes in Hermione's house, as if he was doing something wrong.

A hand slowly makes its way around his waist, grasps the front of his robes and squeezes it tightly. A warm head pillows itself on his back, and the other cool hand follows to clutch his clothing.

* * *

><p>Must you? The words are on the tip of her lips, but she bites her lower lip until she tastes the sharp tang of blood on them. She feels the sudden tug of Apparition, and opens her eyes to see herself back in her own bedroom, small hands still clinging to his robes and his back against her cheek.<p>

"You know, you never asked about my parents," she says softly, not letting go of him even when she hears the telltale thump of his duffel landing on her bed.

He turns in her arms, and with an impassive face, pulls her down into his lap as he sits on the edge of the bed. He buries his face in her hair, arms loose around her.

"I didn't want to know, to be honest," he mumbles into her hair, voice flat.

She can't tell what he's thinking. She can read him better and better every day, but when he shuts himself down like this it's hard to tell, even for her. She knows he's not wholly angry or entirely all right, but she doesn't know if he means what he says. But she knows him well enough to hear the hidden words behind them – that all talks of parents, whether hers or his, are off limits unless she's the one to bring them up.

"I sometimes think –" she begins, her voice so blended into the stillness of the room that she can barely hear herself.

His arms tighten a little around her.

"I sometime think that I should Obliviate myself. Not all of it, just bits and parts. You know, those times when you're young that last into your memory even when you're an adult. Like the first time my dad bought me a thick book for my birthday, even though it was just an encyclopedia. Or like the time he let me ride in the front seat of the car, buckling me in himself and checking it a dozen times to make sure it was secure. Or the time we went to France for a vacation, and I got to bury him in the sand at the beach."

He doesn't say anything, but she hopes that he's imagining his own childhood memories right now, a time when Lucius must've been a warmer father, a man closer to his heart. When Lucius must've bought him a book bound with leather, thick and branded with the scent of leather. When Lucius must've taught him how to ride a broom for the first time. When Lucius must've brought him to a beautiful island perhaps, and they stood on the beach together.

She doesn't like Lucius, far from it; but it's his father.

"But then I remember that I'm the only one to have these memories anymore, and I think, what a waste it would be if I forgot them too…"

"They're…" he says at last, a note of surprise breaking him out of his silence.

"So I don't do anything, Draco," she cuts him off, giving him what was undoubtedly a sad smile.

There's a long silence. She feels the steady beats of his heart beneath her hand, the musk of his aftershave tickling her nose.

"Have you… have you at least seen their graves?" he asks.

She bursts out laughing. Somehow, it feels good to be able to laugh at his very serious question – she laughs both at his misunderstanding, and she laughs at herself for being able to laugh about it at all.

"They're alive. Living in Australia as Monica and Wendell Wilkins. Still dentists. Still have one child. He's… I don't know, I guess about six when I saw him? Teddy's age."

She'd been in downtown Brisbane, tracking the little family into an ice cream shop, where the boy happily picked out a mint chocolate chip cone. She'd lined up to order ice cream herself, to blend into the summer crowd at the shop. In the Australian heat, the cone was melting fast in the boy's hands – and right enough, a drop of pale green liquid fell onto her shoe from his cone.

She remembers her brother's eyes – brown, with flecks of gold from the summer sun slanting through the window.

'I'm so sorry,' her mum had said, with an apologetic smile that she'd seen a million times before. 'Here, a napkin –'

'It's all right.'

She remembers watching her parents walking out of the store, her brother's baby hands in each of their own.

"I'm sorry," he says. She hopes he'll say something else, but it wouldn't be Draco if he said anything more honest than that.

"It's all right," she says, thinking back to the drop of ice cream that she'd left drying on her trainers. "It'll be all right."

* * *

><p>He makes sure that he can hear the rush of water in the shower before he gets up from the bed, and sits on the edge. With a sigh, he opens a drawer of the side table, and draws out a rosewood box. The box opens with a click when he undoes the clasp, and the palm-sized glass ball in the box peeks out innocently at him. He gingerly picks it up and rolls it in his hand, watching to see if the Remembrall fogs up. When it doesn't, he stares at the carved words one more time, and chucks it to the wooden floor without hesitation.<p>

It doesn't break; it doesn't even make that much of a noise. He snaps the box shut, shoves it back into the drawer, and makes his way out of the room before he can even tell where the ball rolls to.

* * *

><p><strong>Guys, the Lucius-Draco development doesn't end here. I think you'll be glad to hear that I have in fact figured out the ending to this very long story, and all will be resolved. As for whether it's a happy ending for the father and son, or not, you'll just have to wait!<strong>


	32. Love, Actually

**I know it's literally taken me ages to update but I assure you it was with good reason. It's been a long, long couple of years and… well. Let's just say I'm back. And I will force myself to write this summer as much as necessary so I can finish! I'm so sorry to have left you hanging for so long.**

**The title is how I feel toward all of you who have held on. And I assure you that the context of the apology in the movie has nothing to do with Draco!**

**JK Rowling owns all of her own books and creations. I own mine.**

* * *

><p>"He moved in? Draco Malfoy? Really?" asks Pansy again, her cappuccino forgotten in her hand.<p>

"Yes, yes, he moved into my tiny two-room flat," she replies with a roll of her eyes. "It's not like it's such a terrible place to live, you know."

Pansy's perfectly plucked eyebrows crinkle into a frown. She puts the cup of cappuccino down on the table with a sound and purses her mouth, letting out a soft sigh of frustration.

"You're maddeningly dense sometimes, Hermione Granger," says Pansy with a shake of her head. "Do you not understand that he's picking you over his parents? There's no way Mr. Malfoy let him move out like that - "

She looks up at Pansy's face with a silent warning, wordlessly sipping her own latte all the while. Pansy immediately shuts up, understanding dawning on her face. The former Pureblood princess of Hogwarts waits for her to speak.

"Let's just say…" she begins, a little reluctant. "Well. I went over for dinner. It didn't go all that well."

Pansy's face turns into a dramatic shade of purple as she gasps loudly enough to attract attention to the duo. She notes a few frowning glances their way, as if their friendship is something to hide as they sit at a cafe in Hogsmeade. She ignores them all, cradling her own cup instead.

"Hermione -"

"Let's not talk about it, all right?"

It's not as though she hasn't thought about what it means to be living with Draco, over and over again. Lying awake into the night, she sometimes stares at Draco's pale face and keeps thinking, thinking, and thinking over the meaning of his presence in her bed, his clothes in her closet, his toothbrush in the caddy in the bathroom, or his books on her shelf.

She keeps telling herself it's not any different from their lives from before. He practically lived there before he officially moved in, anyway. But what makes her hurt is not his continuous presence but _him – _the man she's come to love hasn't been much of a talker since his return (or maybe the War) but he's become…

She knows he's never liked his work. She knows he misses his old job. But now he's strangely become a workaholic, staring into financial documents during dinner and reading Muggle newspapers for the collaboration in the Muggle technology project. She'd like to believe that it's out of at least a subconscious desire on his part to make up for leaving his home in such a way, but knows he would never admit it. She thinks he's trying to prove to his father that working with Muggles is not a bad thing in the end with this venture, but she could be wrong.

She doesn't know what to do. Nervously wrapping her fingers around the cup, she wants to ask Pansy for advice, but can't bring herself to. In the end, it's not Pansy's business. Neither is it Ginny's, although she Flooed her the day after the dinner with an excited voice to ask how it went. In the end, all she's told either of them is just this – that Draco has now moved into the flat. There are days she looks at Draco across the table from her during breakfast, which used to be her favorite time with him, and wants to just stare into his face so that the corner of his mouth will crinkle into one of his nearly invisible expressions. Seeing his normally impeccable self with hair standing up from static, or half dressed in a tee and sweats, is still a novelty. They even watch Muggle films on his laptop sometimes, but she can't get absorbed into even the sappiest of them (and to be honest, those were her favorite) when she can tell he's hardly paying attention at her side. The normal him would make snide jokes about Alan Rickman's stony face or Keira Knightley's unfortunate hat choice. His half-hearted smiles and mechanical movements eat at her throughout the day, although he's still never forgotten to send her lilies right around the time they begin to fade.

Maybe he's asked the florist to just regularly keep sending them to her. Maybe he doesn't even set foot into the flower shop anymore.

So she ruefully stares at the beautifully arranged bouquet of flowers on her desk once she is back at the Ministry, and then turns back to the bunch already in her vase. A hand under her chin, she idly rubs a petal that's turning sallow at the edge, with its brilliant purple center losing its color. Just like Draco, she thinks.

Fading.

She can't help but think that this is the real trial to their relationship. Not Ron or Ginny's reactions that so worried her just two months ago, or even Lucius' disapproval, but Draco. It's the walls he's built around him and the silence with which he wraps himself.

She draws out each stem in her vase, and drops them one by one into the trash can next to her desk.

* * *

><p>He awkwardly stands with George Weasley on a Muggle platform at King's Cross, waiting for the train set to arrive a little past noon. Weasley is kicking a stray piece of garbage next to him, equally lost as to what to say. This is the first time that they've seen each other since the brunch at the Burrow, but they have little to say and even less of an inclination to talk. And yet they are headed to the same place, and they are both thinking of the same things.<p>

"So this… uh. Jakob Strøm," says George, clearing his throat. "Kind of seemed like a…"

"One of the Weird Sisters? I know," he replies. "That's the first thing that went through my head when I met him. But he's brilliant."

"Right. I mean, he must be. Shame he lives all the way in Liverpool. Muggle Liverpool at that."

Silence stretches again. Weasley shuffles his feet on the concrete, and there is a stream of muffled speech from somewhere on the platform. These sounds are somehow grating on his ears, and he checks his watch again to see where the train might be. He turns the watch on his wrist and thinks to himself what a Muggle habit it is, and how much he wishes he could wear a watch in the wizarding world. The whole point of his enterprise, he supposes.

"So. Ginny says you moved in," says Weasley abruptly.

He fights the urge to clench his fist. Instead, he's aware that his body goes entirely still, even the speed at which he blinks slowing down. It's the mechanism he learned from his parents to make sure he doesn't show any nervousness, and he knows that Hermione can read even this. But he doesn't really appreciate the way Weasley seems to think they are somehow chummy enough to –

"We're business partners and mutual investors. Not friends," he replies as an answer to the question that wasn't a question. He pats himself on the back for sounding neutral.

"No, I'm more or less your brother-in-law at this point," scoffs Weasley. "I'm not going to tell you some shite like keep her safe. She's perfectly capable of taking care of herself. And besides, either Harry or Ron probably said something akin to that to you –"

"So then what do you want to hear from me, Weasley?"

Weasley looks uncomfortable, he thinks. Figures the jokes master would start a conversation he doesn't know how to carry.

"Malfoy, I'm not saying we need to be friends. But I saw Hermione last week because she dropped by the shop and she looked like she really needed a laugh. When a significant other moves into one's apartment, that's not the face you expect from the person, eh?"

Bugger. His burden of guilt has been expanding like a lead-filled balloon recently, and Weasley absolutely had to go and add another stone in there. He knows how miserable he's been to Hermione recently, and how much she tries to hide how hurt she is. She musters a smile every morning, and today, she made his black tea exactly the way she knows he likes it and pointedly placed it on top of a newspaper. He remembers blankly staring at the round impression the steaming cup left on the fragile paper, not even aware whether he was drinking coffee or tea. Had he thanked her, at least?

"I've… been overworked."

It's a lie. It's clear that Weasley doesn't really buy it, and it sounds defensive even to his own ears.

The blessed horn of the train toward Liverpool sounds distantly in the station, and he's never been more thankful. He can tell Weasley is trying to say something, but can't hear him over the screech of the brakes. Once the steam is released, he raises his eyebrows partially and faces Weasley with a sigh.

"I was saying that you should probably take her out to dinner. Women are sometimes really simple. Take it from a married man."

"Better yet, why don't I cook her dinner myself?" he says with sarcasm drenching his voice. He can't help but roll his eyes at this point, and he shoulders past Weasley to board the train.

"Well, there's an idea! Can't cook for life, but Angelina loved it when I made that horrendous lasagna."

"Do you really not hear the sarcasm?"

"Oh, I do. But you're a git, Malfoy, so I pick and choose what I hear. It's still a good idea. Or are you too above cooking?"

He glares at the redhead, who has a strangely undecided look on his face that is halfway between mocking and serious. Technically, he probably deserved that, but it annoys him that this tactless buffoon dares to joke about his culinary skills. He may not be a gourmet chef, but when one lives alone, one is forced to cook. Five years of living alone (or with Blaise, but Blaise had never sliced a potato in his life) means that he has a fairly respectable set of dishes under his belt. Besides, he probably cooks dinner more often than Hermione. She may breathe life into his bruised soul, but she was most definitely not doing so through her food.

"Fine, don't answer," says George Weasley, a response he thinks is juvenile at best. "But make her happy, or at least try. Isn't that what you promised my mum and dad?"

He doesn't answer. There's a stab at his chest from Weasley's words, and he's not about to recognize that pain for what it is in front of the infernal busybody.

"Sit down. Liverpool is still quite a while from now," he says instead.

Weasley sighs, and plops down next to him, much to his dismay.

"This is going to be a damned fun ride. Blasted crazy geniuses living with a magical barrier…"

"Please, do shut up."

* * *

><p>There's a note waiting for her at her desk. An impatient owl with a trademark clack of its beaks hops around her scattered papers as she hurriedly unbuttons her coat and hangs it on a hook. She immediately recognizes it as Gideon, the barn owl that Draco tends to use when he's in a hurry. A forgotten sort of panic overtakes her, because she's sure he's supposed to be at Liverpool with George this weekend to finalize the contracts for the Muggle technology project he's been obsessing over during breakfasts. She remembers a time when she received a paper airplane from Draco all too well, and doesn't want to acknowledge how the feeling then feels a little close to now.<p>

Wincing at Gideon's peck, she merely opens the window to let the owl back out and tears into the note. It's a cream colored envelope with his family emblem on the outside, which only makes her more nervous because it means that he wrote it while involved in his work.

She lets out a held breath at the content and a small smile overtakes her tired face. Inside the foreboding envelope is a postcard of a busy harbor, the Port of Liverpool building in the background. She turns over the card and breaks out into a full grin at his tilted handwriting.

_Sorry I'm such a grumpy bugger… Draco_.

* * *

><p><strong>If anyone can tell when this line happened, kudos!<strong>

**Also, this is SUPER IMPORTANT. If any of my followers has a backup of my story, PLEASE PM me. screwed me over and erased Chapter 28, which makes me more miserable than you think.**

**Again, thanks for waiting!**


	33. Such an Ordinary Plate of Pasta

**Thanks to: rugratfeen, lunsford, Musicangel913, Nathaliya, Cpetrienm, .98, noir-parachutes, isophia216, long live marshmallows, , baconanyone, Siren34, angel-girl73, izzyanne, Mayuko Tataeshi, and Divess for the favorites/follows/reviews! I solemnly promise that I am up to finishing this story.**

**I'm sort of floored by how many people are now following this story. Compared to some, it might be nothing, but you all mean the world to me.**

**AND CHAPTER 28 HAS BEEN REWRITTEN AND POSTED! GO BACK AND READ IT! Leave some reviews haha.**

**JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. I own _Two Boxes of Memories_.**

* * *

><p>Everett is waiting for him at the door of the Leaky Cauldron on the Muggle side, looking more than slightly sheepish at standing there with a bouquet of flowers in his hand. After all, the Leaky is a grimy bar on both sides, and Everett is entirely too overdressed for the casual dinner that he told his Muggle best mate it would be. He can also tell that Everett keeps feeling the urge to move away from the door because of the compulsion charm that he previously used on the doors of the drawing room in the Manor.<p>

"Everett, mate," he calls, half standing in the doorway. "It's this way."

"Draco!" says Everett, a little too happily.

He almost snickers as Everett moves to wipe his one open hand on the trousers of his summer suit, but rethinks it at the last second. Everett moves the bouquet to his other hand and claps him on the back as he steps back so Everett can enter.

Once inside, he has to pull Everett along to the back courtyard because the Muggle freezes near the door. It's obvious from his narrowed eyes that Everett Holloway is looking for some sign of magic in the discreet bar, scanning everything from the worn wood to the peeling wallpaper. Hannah Abbott, Longbottom's wife and the successor to Tom, shoots them a fleeting glance of surprise.

"Welcome to The Leaky, what can I get you?" she says cautiously, looking mostly at Everett and shooting him, the former Death Eater, a suspicious look. Neither of the Longbottoms was too happy when they found out about his relationship with Hermione, but Hannah has always curbed her judgment and let them be even as Hermione waved to her on their way to a date in the Muggle world. Better than most, he thinks. Then again, discretion is the soul of a bartender, isn't it?

"Uh…" stammers Everett. "I… I don't know."

"Longbottom, he's my guest. I got him a pass," he answers instead, nudging Everett to follow him to the back courtyard.

Once outside, he taps the familiar stones on the wall with his wand as Everett watches in fascination. It occurs to him that he actually hadn't known the tapping order before his exile, much to his embarrassment. The occasion to go in through the Leaky had never happened in his childhood. When the wall begins to slide back on its own accord, Everett starts next to him and nearly drops his bouquet for Hermione.

"A pass?" Everett asks as they pass through the street in Diagon Alley, fidgeting in his extremely outlandish clothing. "For what?"

"Technically, people who aren't blood relations to a wizard or a witch aren't allowed to know about our existence. I'm sure it happens anyway, but since Hermione's a bureaucrat and all I thought I might as well follow procedure," he replies, ignoring the curious and baffled glances his way. He supposes that seeing him with a Muggle, even after all the rumors (and articles in the _Prophet_, he won't lie) of his changed behavior, is a little jarring.

"Oh. And this is…" Everett's eyes flit from place to place, suffering from jolts of surprise when he sees a book beginning to fly through the window of Flourish and Blotts', or the moving advert in Quality Quidditch Supplies.

Everett gives a sudden yelp, forcing him to stop in his tracks. All he sees a boy puking out something green in front of Weasley's joke shop, and he turns to Everett with a question in his face.

"Where's his mum? Shouldn't we take him to the hospital or something?" says Everett awkwardly.

"It's just a Puking Pastille. It comes in a Skiving Snackbox…" he chuckles. "I hated the owners when I was younger, but Merlin knows even I bought one of those to get out of classes."

"Oh. So it's like… candy? Like the Willy Wonka kind?"

He laughs out loud in the middle of the street, because he distinctly remembers reading Dahl's famed children's book and snickering at how similar it was to the twins' joke shop.

"Yes. Exactly like that."

It takes them an abnormally long time to reach the flat that Hermione and he share, because the Muggle keeps getting distracted by everything around him. Everett looks pale by the time they reach the front door, and his knuckles are white around the edges around the bouquet.

"Hermione isn't going to hex you. Just relax," he tells his Muggle friend. "I told you, you're here to help me make up with her. A friendly dinner, that's all."

"I know, I know," replies Everett with a sigh. "The whole thing about your father and all. It's just… my being here is weird enough on its own but I'm meeting your girlfriend that you refused to introduce me to for the better part of half a year."

Has it really been that long? He supposes it has been, and yet the wary glances and distrusting eyes he feels on himself everywhere in the magical world still feels unnerving.

"It's not that I intended to hide you from Hermione," he says, unlocking the door with a tap of his wand, letting his magical signature be known.

"Well, I guess I should feel special, eh? She sounds like a great girl."

She is, he thinks with a grin. And he's the luckiest bastard in the world, though he clearly forgets it once in a while and is an ungrateful idiot. The last time that he was positively smashed with Everett in a bar, he spilled all his uncertainties about their relationship. Needless to say, Holloway was more than confused at why so many people were against them or why he felt so unworthy of her. He could only make a weak analogy to the racial or socioeconomic divisions in the Muggle world that Everett would be more familiar with, which didn't quite feel right.

In the end, Everett could only tell him that it's the natural cycle of relationships to have amazing and not-so-amazing moments. He wishes he could tell Everett more – how much he feels the world's eyes on them in the claustrophobically small place that is the British magical society, or how much he knows many of his friends are looking to him and Hermione for a small glimmer of hope and normalcy. Or even how much his mother smiles when she sees that he's all right, bearing well under the pressure and still looking healthier than he did in the past several years before and during the War.

But at moments like this, when he's about to introduce one of his best friends to his girlfriend, something feels so _right_, and so normal, that he's only scared all the more.

But so hopeful. So, so hopeful.

* * *

><p>She stares at the pot of pasta on the stove, biting her lip. Draco had told her dozens of times to just watch the pot and make sure that the pasta doesn't overcook and turn into a pile of mush. She was chopping onions and tomatoes that he'd left on the counter, and before she knew it, the exact thing he'd feared had happened.<p>

Sneaking a look at the clock, she realizes with a thudding heart that Everett must be nearly at the flat by now. Sure enough, she hears the sound of the front door opening and voices from the hall. She looks at the pot again, and miserably waits for Draco to come into the kitchen.

She was so excited for this dinner, too. After Draco's postcard of apology last week, he's visibly been making a lot of effort to talk to her more often and put down his work. She doesn't know what about the Liverpool trip changed him, but she has a small suspicion that it may have been George. Then again, the deal did end up going through and very well at that. She gets lost in the minutiae when they talk about it, but then again, he also gets lost in her Muggle and magical creature rights campaigns in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. But she feels that things are taking a turn for the better, though she's never brought up his father or her own parents ever since.

She hears footsteps behind her, and turns around to find Draco and his friend standing at the kitchen door.

"Everett! I've heard a lot about you," she begins, stepping close to Everett and hoping Draco won't go straight to the pot. Draco stops near her to give her a peck on her hair before, of course, turning to the stove.

"Ah, Hermione. Likewise," says the tall, rather gangly brunette with short-cropped hair who stands awkwardly in a Muggle suit in her flat. He's so different from the composed and cool Draco that she wonders how they're so close.

"Here, for the queen," blurts out Everett, holding out the bouquet and blushing furiously.

"Huh?" she replies automatically.

"You know, like… like in Shakespeare's _Winter's Tale_. Queen Hermione."

She has to laugh at that, and Everett's blush deepens. Forget what she thought before, this man is most _definitely_ Draco's best friend. The literary reference makes her eyes twinkle in amusement.

"Thank you. You can hang your jacket out in the hall, if you'd like," she responds, accepting the bouquet of tulips with a wide smile.

"Uh, sure."

Once Everett leaves the kitchen, she can hear Draco's audible sigh.

"I know, I know, I'm shite at cooking and apparently I can't even boil pasta correctly. I don't know how I messed this up, I know how to cook eggs and toast in the morning…" she babbles.

Draco turns to her with a quirked eyebrow, holding the pot in one hand and his wand in the other. He vanishes the water in the pot, dumps the pasta in the trash, and heads back toward her with the same amused expression.

"So. It takes around 10 to 12 minutes to boil pasta to al dente. Maybe 30 seconds after the 10 minute mark, and you can take out a piece to taste it. Think you're up to the challenge, Gryffindor Know-it-all?"

She laughs at the familiar nickname from their school days, and leans forward to give him a kiss.

"There was nothing I couldn't learn, so bring it on, ferret."

Draco hands her the pot in his hand with a shake of his head. His grin at her joking taunt makes her feel a little warm and she almost wishes Everett wasn't in the sitting room at the moment.

"When's Pansy set to arrive? She talks to you more than me nowadays," says Draco, inspecting the cutting board with the onions and tomatoes. She sees that he chops the onions more finely and removes the runny seeds in the tomatoes, but he doesn't say anything to her. She doesn't know if he knows that she really appreciates the fact that he doesn't criticize more than he has to.

"In a few minutes. Has she met Everett?"

"Once or twice. She tagged along with Blaise once because she's only seen Muggle Paris, not London."

"You know, I think he might be her type."

Draco scrapes the onions off the cutting board into a bowl, and sets a skillet on the stove. Everything seems so natural to him that it's strange to her – she's seen him cook so many times, and yet, she still can't get used to the fact that he has no idea how to cook using spells. She's tried to learn a few incantations while living with Ginny, but those who were never meant to be cooks aren't particularly good at cooking spells either, she supposes. All the pots, pans, and cutlery in their flat are Muggle-made, without enchantments. She's living a strange in-between life, and it's Draco who brings the Muggle element into the flat rather than her.

She pours a cup of tea for Everett, putting it on a tray.

"You think so?" he responds. "She's not particularly into the smart types. I didn't think anything when they met last."

"It's because you're not a woman, Draco," she says airily. "He's probably bored there by himself. Should he just sit at the dining table?"

Later, when Pansy arrives with a small cake ('Best of Paris! It's coffee liqueur and caramel topping and just absolutely scrumptious. Do you like cake, Ev?'), the dinner is ready. She and Draco sit next to each other on one side of the table, plates of pasta with tomato sauce he made from scratch in front of them. She knows she won't be quite the hostess that Narcissa is, and wonders if Draco feels as nervous as she does for this dinner to be a success.

It turns out she has to do very little to assume the role of a hostess. Between Pansy's almost nosy questions about Everett's job (he's recently gotten a raise and a promotion, and Draco had the most proud, father-like face that helped her understand even more why they were best mates) and Everett's endless questions about Diagon Alley, she merely has to appreciate Draco's simple but delightful cooking and his silent warmth next to her.

Nestled on the sofa together to read after the guests have left, she notes the bright tulips she placed in the middle of the coffee table with a bubbly feeling welling up inside her. She looks up at him, putting the book down over her stomach with her head in his lap.

Had she told herself that she was in love with him those years ago, when he was still in the Muggle world? A part of her wants to laugh. Because what she thought was love then pales in comparison to this normalcy.

This indescribable everyday happiness.

* * *

><p><strong>Guys, the end is nigh. And reviews will make my fingers dance and create magic in MS Word.<strong>


	34. Rising Winds

**Thanks to: gus'hazelgrace, EnVy30, DramioneAgainstAllOds, rikitamos, geethat'swizard, birttanyjanee, dreadfuldelights, xrosee, not the bees, adambrodylover, Divess, long live marshmallows, .mm, fishiebowl, and willow136 for the love!**

**This story is nearing the end – like I told you in a previous chapter, I've known the ending since a year ago. It was how to get there that was killing me, but I hope this isn't too abrupt and it lives up to expectations. This chapter, and maybe one more, then the big finale will commence! I also foresee there being a multi-part epilogue just because there's a lot of things that should and could happen during the happily-ever-after. And that's just real life, right?**

**So enjoy – as always, Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling and Two Boxes of Memories belongs to me.**

* * *

><p>It's another weekend in Liverpool for him, but this time without George. He rather likes the feeling of being alone at the moment, though he suspects that Hermione might really like the place. Sometimes, though, a man needs his free time. The press releases for Jakob's products are all written and edited on his desk at the hotel, filled with the red ink pen marks that he favored as an editor. Newspaper articles are no novels, but it still leaves a giddy feeling in his hand. He plans to seriously consider leaving his position as the Malfoy Holdings, Inc.'s head and taking up a job as an editor for a magical publisher. Maybe he'll just ask for a job at Flourish and Blotts' – he has more than enough income from his investments to live without working, but having a job is always a good thing.<p>

He doubts that the proprietor of the shop will hire him.

Then again, the fact that he's one of the principal investors in a venture to introduce Muggle technology to the magical world is apparently a big enough shock to the British magical community to merit some good reputation his way. The company he set up jointly with Jakob, with George's 10% stake and Malfoy Holdings' 40%, has been getting some interesting press recently. Opinions columnists were vehemently for and against the introduction of Muggle products which work under magical disruptions, resulting in a huge increase in interest throughout the continent. But ever since Jakob fixed his laptop to work in the flat, he's had such an easier time with work and writing notes and watching films with Hermione that he can't imagine that there will be detractors before long. Then again, laptops were hard to use even for Muggles, if they were old…

He decides to direct his aimless feet away from the hotel and to the signs he saw earlier for the famed Penny Lane. He thinks she'll probably like some photographs, and reminds himself to propose a MP3 player as the next product to Jakob before he gets too ahead of himself with smartphones. Better to go slow. Humming 'Hey Jude', he heads down the street with a sense of his world righting itself, when it tilts again at a nondescript, rather forlorn jewelry shop that isn't quite posh enough to attract people who might actually want jewelry.

There's a set of rings at the window, and he pushes the glass door into the shop as if enticed by a siren's song.

* * *

><p>She meets Narcissa at a Ministry function, one that she couldn't have avoided despite not having Draco to come with her. In a sense, she supposed things had worked out for Kingsley, who looked like he wanted to broach the subject of <em>not<em> bringing Draco to the event. She told him (rather coolly) that he was out of town for the weekend, feeling a bit reproachful that the Minister would be one of those who were so obstinate about understanding their relationship. After all, Kingsley did look relieved, and she suspected that he and Percy had a tug-of-war between them about who should talk to her.

But Narcissa is there, stunning in a violet gown that hints strongly of Muggle design. In fact, one of Pansy's designs, which she also happens to be wearing herself at the moment.

She then realizes that Kingsley actually probably asked Narcissa to come in her son's stead – besides, the graceful Lady of the Manor is also heavily involved in post-war recovery projects. Perhaps more tellingly, Narcissa gives immense donations specifically to orphanages and preschools after the war while Draco gives mostly to a large general fund. She, who knows Narcissa at least a little more than all the people here, understands entirely. Family is everything to her, and she is here to brave the many incredulous stares for her son and his business's sake.

The function is one of many that Narcissa would've attended as the queen of pureblood society many years ago. But at this thanks-to for those who contributed to the rebuilding of the magical community, she is clearly an unwelcome sight for many. There are even Muggle parents of wizards and witches here, looking slightly bewildered as they would've at Diagon Alley when their children were first accepted into Hogwarts. But all this is just completely absurd, she thinks. And to be the model Ministry worker that she is (and of course, to be a good girlfriend of the lady's only son), she immediately goes to the older woman. The fact that she's wearing a token of their connection – beyond what she has with Draco – also spurs her on.

"Miss Granger," says Narcissa Malfoy pleasantly. "You look absolutely wonderful."

She laughs at the formality in Narcissa's tone.

"You do too, Mrs. Malfoy. But I hope you don't have to call me Miss Granger at this point?"

Narcissa merely gives her a queenly smile, but her blue eyes then land on the familiar amber necklace that adorns the younger woman, amazingly complex with small gemstones in a way that spoke of goblin hands. Her smile expands to a more genuine one that has less of a socialite in it.

"You wore it," says Narcissa. "It goes very well with your eyes."

She almost feels a blush creeping on her cheeks. Back when her blond highlights hadn't quite faded, earlier in their budding relationship, Draco had said something similar about her eyes.

'They're not quite gold. Amber, maybe?'

'What is? My hair?'

'Your eyes. They'd… well. Your darker hair brought out your eyes better.'

It was said almost abruptly, and over a dinner at a Muggle bistro that they had decided to visit on one of their walks. She remembers hearing that comment, which seemed so incredibly detail-oriented on his part at the time (would Ron or Harry ever comment on what shade of hair brought out her eyes more?), and being slightly upset that he didn't like the highlights. But then she'd realized so much in that one sentence.

That he's the kind of person who pays attention to such minute things. That he'd grown up in an immensely rich family, way out of her solidly middle-class league, where they had to actually pay attention to fashion or slight differences in shades of color. That he'd spoken around the fact that he doesn't quite like the new hair but in a way that she would be least offended.

That she could read all of this from those sparing words.

That was when she realized, a little, how his brain and his entire existence worked. And she'd realized with a small thrill that she knew enough about him to hear the unsaid appreciation for her natural beauty.

And now, she hears Narcissa's unsaid words in that compliment.

Thank you, for wearing something I gave to you.

Suddenly, she hears the sound of broken glass to her left. As a reflex, she turns her head to look at the source of the sound, and sees Mr. Creevey frozen in his place.

She can feel his anger radiating all the way across the room, and flits a glance at Mrs. Malfoy to gauge her response. The woman's face is an impassive mask.

"How dare she show up here?!" yells Mr. Creevey, a shaking, accusatory finger aimed at Narcissa. "How _dare_ she?"

The broken glass around his feet crunch as he rampages across the room to head toward the two women. The room, filled with well-dressed people who had probably felt like saying the same words to Narcissa but refrained out of propriety, collectively holds its breath as the scene plays out between the Muggle father and the Pureblood.

"I may not be one of you, but I sure as hell know that this slag is one of _those_ people," seethes Mr. Creevey, now leveling his wrath toward Hermione. "And Colin…"

She hates hearing his voice break on his elder son's name. But she also hates this entire situation, and she hates that Narcissa has to face Mr. Creevey's grief when she wasn't responsible at all.

"Is that your son's name? Colin?" speaks Narcissa, her voice quiet, soothing.

"Bugger off, you godforsaken…" begins Mr. Creevey, tears now welling in his eyes.

"Mr. Creevey, I'm so, so sorry about Colin, and I knew him well in school, but Mrs. Malfoy…" she intervenes, regretting that she ever came.

"No, it's all right, Hermione," says Narcissa. "Nothing you or I can say will ever abate the feeling of losing a child… and for that, I perhaps deserve this."

A tear loosens itself from Mr. Creevey's eyes, which are now round with surprise at Mrs. Malfoy's words. But his anger is still simmering in him, making his body tremble with uncontrollable emotion. He looks as though he desperately wishes he had a wand and the ability with which to curse Narcissa, and she herself can only look on with helplessness at the tension between the two parents.

Mr. Creevey finally turns on his heel, his fist clenched and a torrent of misery with anger written on his face. He stalks out of the wide ballroom, and eyes follow his exit. Some eyes hold pity. Others hold a similar sort of righteous anger. Still others are looking at Narcissa and her instead, curiosity in their blatant stares.

"I almost feel his pain," whispers Narcissa at her side, her blue eyes chasing the retreating back of the grieving father.

A stab of guilt poisons the already heavy uneasiness that settled in her stomach. She's talking about Draco – who hasn't even talked to his mother, apparently. She faces Narcissa, a pained look no doubt overtaking her face.

"Narcissa –"

"Hermione," says the lady. "I must tell you this, now that I trust you to take care of Draco."

Mrs. Malfoy twists a ring around her left hand. It's her wedding band, no doubt, its tasteful glow reduced as she hides the stone toward her palm. Is it Narcissa's subdued anger at her husband that makes her hide the ring? Or was the resentment towards her? Because after all, it is her fault.

She's now taken the son away from his family twice. And yet, Narcissa is extending a hand to her yet again.

"Ever since he left the Manor, there have been a series of letters addressed to him," says Narcissa quietly, taking out her wand and summoning a light shawl to wrap around her.

"Are you leaving?" she asks, not understanding the conversation.

"Please listen. There have been letters," begins Narcissa. "Letters, which were flagged by our house elves as potential concerns. There are many safety mechanisms around the Manor, which I'm sure you understand. Some were Howlers, which were destroyed immediately."

Narcissa pauses before continuing, as if what she needs to say is hard to get out. Her next words chill her spine.

"Others were cursed to activate upon opening. And some of them, Hermione, had your name on them."

* * *

><p>On Sunday morning, he steps off of the platform and slips the ring onto his own hand first, just to see what it feels like. It feels cool on his left hand, a little foreign and unfamiliar. But he also sort of likes the way it glows but doesn't glitter, doesn't put itself in anyone's way but stays like a solid thread that connects him to her. He knows full well that he has quite a lot of time to worry about exactly how to give it to her, and so he lets his limited imagination (he was an investor and an editor, not an entrepreneur or an author) run free. He doesn't want it to be too ostentatious, because she's the last person on earth who'll appreciate that. And the ring is a simple thing, elegant but easy.<p>

The stone, not overly large, is inlaid in white gold shaped like a rose. A thin band continues in a curved line from either side of the stone, and joins decorations like treble clefs that haven't quite finished curling. It's not thick or studded with diamonds as a ring from his family vaults would be, and the thought cheers him.

Walking along the street to head to the Leaky from King's Cross, he decides on a whim to buy a bouquet of lilies as well. There's a regular florist that he visits every week or so to order a new bunch for Hermione, but he feels sentimental today. So he picks out stems that look the freshest, and decides to Apparate instead from a discreet alley to surprise Hermione at their flat.

The moment he pulls out his wand from inside his suit jacket, a ghostly Patronus of a dog bounds into the alleyway.

* * *

><p><strong>Dun Dun Dun...<strong>


	35. Untitled

**Thanks to: inosculation, MsNyny4, MotorMouthMili, CAM369487, MaddyLounsbury, boothaddict77, CrimsonRose21, shellybansal, Life-is-rolling-keep-on-going, NazChick, and as usual, Divess, for their interest in the story!**

**This chapter is one of the experimental ones. But I think it'll be a lot less confusing than my other experimental chapters, and above all, this is VITAL to the end.**

**That's right, the end is near, guys. Thank you all for those who have stayed with me!**

**_Two Boxes of Memories_**** belongs to me. The rest is all JK Rowling.**

* * *

><p>The air is black.<p>

Tendrils of smoke that waft out between the windowsill and the brick wall seem almost lazy to his eyes.

He drops the bouquet in his hands, stands rooted on the cobblestone below analyzing the ashes that drift downward from their flat.

Somewhere, he hears the frantic barking of the dog that followed him here.

* * *

><p><em>"Don't go in there, Malfoy, do you hear me?"<em> screamed Ron Weasley's voice in the alleyway, the baritone out of place in the small terrier that was his messenger. _"No matter what, do not go in there. Answer me!"_

His frozen feet seems to heed Weasley's warning, but he never did listen to the likes of Weaselbee.

* * *

><p><em>"The fire isn't natural, for bloody fuck's sake. I swear to Merlin, Malfoy, if you go in there…"<em>

His hands are empty where they should hold a wooden wand. But it seems so inadequate. What can a polished stick do against this?

* * *

><p><em>"I'm telling you that the Fire Squad has been completely blocked off and the wards won't let them in. There's something sealing in the fire, too."<em>

For someone who claims to be her best friend, the dense plonker didn't even seem to realize that the wards that seal in the fire and the wards that keep out the Fire Squad are all her work. The seal is meant to contain magical discharges so that they can avoid detection. It hasn't been there before, but he can feel her magic behind it. She's always been thorough. Maybe a little too thorough this time.

But the flat lets him in like a familiar friend. The sense of her living magic gives him hope.

* * *

><p><em>"We don't know if she's in there. We couldn't confirm because of the wards, Malfoy! Are you even listening to me?"<em>

He sees but doesn't feel the fire licking through his suit. The sleeves start to unravel into black dust. All he can think is how much she would be upset. This was her favorite one.

* * *

><p><em>"Malfoy. Malfoy. MALFOY!"<em>

That's my name. You didn't have to say it so loudly, Weasley. There's no need. It's already smeared across the wall in thick ink, liquid strands bleeding through the wallpaper like red tears. There are also the words 'Whore' and 'Pureblood scum' and a bunch of other things that he can't see through the waves of heat and ashes that cloud his vision.

He asks himself briefly how he's still standing. Then he sees the reason sprawled out in the bedroom.

He doesn't ask anything past that. How she is. If she's alive. He gathers her in his arms. Remembers to disable the wards to let the Fire Squad in. Forgets all else.

Then there is nothing to do but hold her hand. So he remembers doing just that.

* * *

><p><strong>When I said this is near the end, I didn't mean that this IS the end. I would never end on this note. So please don't kill me!<strong>


	36. One Box of Memories

**Thanks to: everyone who reads it and stuck with me thus far!**

**Everything belongs to JK Rowling except the plot and the title of Two Boxes of Memories.**

* * *

><p>He can't see where he goes.<p>

His vision is black, and he stumbles forward in fear of every passing second, mindless and aimless in his desperation. The simple ring on his left hand mocks him, adds to his ever-mounting panic and pulls him into a hell he'd prayed and prayed would never come.

"Mr. Malfoy," a stern voice rings at his ear, beating through his muffled ears to reach his addled mind. "Mr. Malfoy, please go back to your room."

He's vaguely aware of turning his head toward the man, uncomprehending. He stares and stares, until he looks out back towards the colorless hallway with its Healers, dashing this way and that. Everything seems to be moving in slow motion to his frozen grey eyes.

Suddenly, he rushes forward and tries to break through the man to get into the hall, screaming hoarsely with smoke-ruined vocal cords and unintelligible words. Another man runs into his tunnel vision and grips him firmly, pushing him out of the hallway. He hears grunts and shouts around him, but he comprehends none of it.

Hermione.

Hermione, he screams and screams, but his voice comes out as sharp scratches on a chalkboard. He can't stop the tears streaming down his face, the angry, panicked cries, or his frantic pulls at the robes of the men holding him back.

Hermione.

"Someone sedate him!" shouts one of the men, and he feels more hands tearing at his clothes to keep him out.

He collapses to the floor at that, the inhuman strength in his arms gone as fast as it came, and merely beats his head against the wall with a final miserable cry. The hands try to bring him away from the wall, but he presses his back to the wall all the more firmly and tips his head backward with a little more force.

"Draco," says a familiar voice at last, breaking through his fogged mind. "Draco."

"I… I…" he hears a terrible sound from his own throat, clogged with unfathomable despair. "She…"

"She'll be all right. She's okay. I saw her just now."

He shakes his head, and pulls a lifeless hand into his once-golden locks and tears at them with another gravelly utterance.

His fault. His fault. The black guilt and darkness claw at his heart, bring him to an unending precipice and back again into a more unforgiving reality.

Hermione.

Two hands lock onto his own, still buried in his hair, and gently but firmly drags them away from his head.

"She'll be okay," says his father, his voice a quiet whisper. "She's fine."

"She's not – she – " he croaks, his voice dead and dull.

"Most of her hair's gone, and she'll probably have a burn scar or two. But Draco, she's fine. Only asleep. Like you were."

"- My fault… "

"No. No, Draco, you can't think like this. She can't see you like this. You have to be well first, if you're to see her."

"I can't – "

"You must. She's waiting for you. It's not me, or Potter, or Weasley she's waiting for. It's you. You must be the one to wake her up. But not until you're well."

He can't speak. He doesn't understand why it's his father who is comforting him. He doesn't understand why he's in St. Mungo's, when all he remembers is the searing heat of the fire, the endless smoke, and the fear that pervaded his every pore and drove him headfirst into the rapidly disintegrating flat.

He remembers that he left the lilies in the street, forgotten before the roar of the flames and his equally burning fear.

He thinks he now knows what it truly means to be afraid, beyond the fear for his own life and that of his parents, but fear for her. She, who is his life and very soul, his savior and his end, the woman he once hated and the woman who gave him another path to tread. The residual fear for her grips him again, and he teeters on the edge, about to give into the memories of that eternally black night and tip back into the depths of utter hopelessness.

"Draco, you must be strong for her. It must be you at her side. Where is the man who told me he won't leave her, damn the world and its consequences? Remember that?"

He does.

He remembers. He remembers the best of her smiles, talking about Tolkien, cooking pasta together, the kiss at the wedding, the laughter reserved for him when he breathes on her neck when making love. He remembers her cool hand in the courtroom, and he remembers those five years of wondering, imagining, and wondering again.

He remembers his letters.

He stares at his father, his pain mirrored in the pale grey eyes of a different face. For a moment, he dares to hope.

"There's a box," he rasps out. "On my shelf."

* * *

><p>So he reads them to her. One by one, in a faltering voice that still sounds so unlike his, he reads them all. The Aurors and Healers know better by now than to keep him away, after he sat down on the cold floor of the hospital in front of her room for hours when they wouldn't let him in. His voice slowly comes back to him with every spoken word, the memories etched in with ink reviving him and hopefully her as well.<p>

He reads them all, starting from the first letter he ever wrote about pens. He can't stop the tears that occasionally flood his vision, or the tight grip that tears into the fragile paper that bears the brunt of his crushing grief and mental agony. But he goes on. He sometimes reads her a particular line again and again, making sarcastic comments about his younger self and snickering at his old insecurities. He tells her little stories as he goes - more details about that drunken night, anecdotes about football games, the manuscript he struggled with for three straight days while trying to make heads or tails of the author's incomprehensible writing.

He doesn't remember how much time passes – but he counts by the number of his letters, and today he reads her the very last letter he writes to her on the morning of his return from exile, just hours before the dawn and hours before he would see her again. He'd found it as he was packing a bag to come to St. Mungo's, sweeping all the clothes in the closet he shared with her into a duffel.

The Remembrall was in the closet. He remembers that he'd thrown it on the floor that disastrous night after they got back from the Manor, and knows that she must've saved it and placed it somewhere he wouldn't see it. It lay on top of her shoebox, the ones with the postcards still in it, gathering dust on its glass shell.

With a sigh, he'd picked it up in his hand, resolving to put it back in its case. He had no desire to destroy it any longer – not when Lucius was stoically keeping vigil outside the room where she slept, for hours at a time. He'd also told himself that he would speak to his father at last, when the Remembrall began to fog with blood red smoke, slowly spreading from inside its walls.

Something he'd forgotten. Something important.

He'd swept the entire room, the Remembrall clutched tightly in his hand. He eventually left Hermione's flat to head to his room at the Manor, head swimming with memories and past events that he couldn't even tell were real or not. Finally, he'd come upon the old faded jeans he'd bought on a whim in the Muggle world, one of the first that he'd ever bought. Most of his Muggle clothes were in Hermione and his flat, stacked or hung neatly because her closet was too impeccable for him to disturb with his naturally messy habits. The jeans were one of the few that were left in the trunk, haphazardly thrown onto a shelf in his massive closet that was hauntingly empty.

Then he remembered. He'd written the letter, a full year ago, scribbling on a piece of post-it in the dull light of the dawn, and stuffed it in the back pocket of the jeans which were draped on the chair at his desk. The letter is crumpled and nearly unreadable, but the faded words came back to him even as the red smoke of the Remembrall began to vanish during his hurried trip from the apparition point of St. Mungo's to her hospital room.

And he thinks it's fitting, in some way, that the last letter he reads to her is the forgotten one.

* * *

><p>Do you remember, Hermione – that time that we saw each other for the last time on Platform 9 ¾ in our sixth year?<p>

I remember it, only because that was the first year I didn't give you a sneer, or a smirk. I remember staring blankly at you, and you were staring equally blankly at me. Even as I boarded the train, the only thing that I could think was that it was you who I was about to condemn, you who would suffer at the wands of my father's associates, you who would be lost.

And it was the first time I realized I was committing a crime worse than an Unforgivable, to wallow in guilt for the rest of my miserable existence while hoping like a rat that I would stay alive.

That year was the year I lost – about to be one of several, during which I can't say I was any more alive than the corpses that Fenrir Greyback left in his wake.

All the times we lost – all the times we could've been friends, all the times we could've been more.

One day, I'll tell you all of this, face to face. I'll tell you how nervous I feel right now, how hopeful I've been, despite all the times we lost and treasuring the few imagined moments that you gave to me.

It might not be soon. It might be in 10 hrs, which is when I'll see you again, or in 10 years, or in 50 years. It might not even be during this lifetime at all. It might be the last favor I ask of God before I'm past the bars of hell, to carry a message to you as atonement. Or behind the Veil, in a realm of timelessness and eternal magic, depending on what you believe.

But I'll tell you all this someday. Someday, I'll tell you that when all I could remember was suffering and madness, you gave me new memories to start anew and carry me through the rest of my life. I'll read you all of these letters someday, and give you my box of memories.

And I'll tell you, at last -

I love you.


End file.
